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Cintra
The Common Road
Vandal leaned back against the tree as he cleaned the bloody mace of brains and stains, after starting a small fire to chase the chills away from his lovely companions.
Serah, wrapped up in a fur blanket, was curled up next to him. Her head was on his lap, and she was just about to drift off to sleep. Sandy was in their tent just a few feet away from them, having gone ahead and tucked herself in for the night as the day's journey had worn her down.
The refugee caravan from Amendale had traveled a great distance on the main road, consuming a total of two days. Already, their supplies have started to dwindle, so most of the abled mercenaries ventured every now and then to hunt or forage from nearby woods. Each time they did, they would suffer casualties when stumbling across a monster's lair or a group of bandits.
Vandal had his share of defending the caravan from opportunistic raiders, creating a bit of a reputation for himself aside from being just another town hero or fiend-slayer. But it wasn't just from combat prowess alone that he gained fame, it was his selfless nature. Vandal was rarely seen partaking of the food or water the caravan supply had to offer, as he instead gave away what he had to those who were of less sterner stock. And when it was time for him to take up arms to fend off both man and beast from the helpless, the knight-errant showed little hesitation, and he would come to their defense time and time again.
The children and the old, especially, thanked what gods they prayed to for the knight who was likened unto a lantern in a dark world. Serah and Sandy, on the other hand, thanked the gods for sculpting such a fine creature, who would safeguard them against the horrors of the Continent and beyond whilst providing warmth between the sheets.
But some men, like Rostchild, envied the young man to no end. Sometimes, the vile nature of man needn't have a reason to hate his fellow man. So it was with jealousy, as its first roots sprouted within Rostchild's heart.
He had everything they craved; coin, women and fame. To them, he barely had to do anything to get all three in one lifetime.
"Look at him, poshy little prick." He growled to one of his friends. "Honest hard-working blokes like us have to work our asses off for our gold, and he only has to come through the door swinging a fiend head for the fucking mayor to hand him a bag o' crowns! Crying shame, all them simpletons fell for the bloody thing. Unbelievable!"
"Not to mention the fine lasses throwin' themselves at 'im." The ruffian next to him echoed the sentiment. His name was Kostin, one of the long time warriors among Enris' mercenaries. An ugly man with a face that looked like it took one too many blows to the nose, warping the poor creature into a troll-like appearance. According to popular opinion, Kostin was ugly long before his face started to show it.
The man was a degenerate, a liar and a drunkard. Enris tolerated him on the account that he was pretty handy with the spear. He was the only one who held his ground against the fiend that snatched out Rostchild's eye while all others turned tail and fled the battle. The bond between scum was instantaneous, "Tell me, Rost, when was the last time ya saw Serah an' Sandy plying their trade?"
"Fuck if I know. They certainly weren't when I was around town." The one-eyed man replied with a shrug, "But what I would do to get my prick shoved between that feisty raven-haired cunt's thighs. They tell me she's to die for, if only she wasn't so damned picky with her men."
"Well, what's stopping ya?"
Rostchild slowly turned his head to his friend, his eye shared that same look of malice as the other. "You're right, Kostin. What the hell is stopping me?"
"You thinking what I'm thinking?" The ugly man grinned, showing rows on rows of misaligned teeth. He and Rostchild wandered off, discussing dark plans in the shadows as they moved away from the rest of the camp, pretending to make their rounds about the clearing.
Enris, having finished inspecting the state of their defenses, approached the fire where Vandal was sitting close to and greeted the knight, "Evening, lad."
Vandal looked up at him and smiled, placing a finger to his lips to signal for quiet. "Shhh…I shall take her back to the tent, let's talk elsewhere."
Enris' voice was barely above a whisper, "Not too far from here, I pray. You should never be far from the harpies."
Vandal eyed him quizzically, but agreed with the tall man's suggestion. He gently roused Serah and guided her into the tent to lie down beside Sandy. Once she was tucked in, the knight strapped his mace to his belt and walked towards the mercenary leader.
"So, what's this all about?"
"Oh, don't worry about it much, I just want to talk." Enris replied, "I was hoping you'd be willing to share some things about yourself, help ease my growing curiousity."
"Well…" Vandal was apprehensive, and he frantically searched for a way to escape. "I guess that depends entirely on what you want to know."
"Tell you what, let's do it like those vendors do in the market." Enris suggested to ease the younger man's discomfort. "We trade. You tell me something, I tell you something. That way, neither of us feel like we're using the other. How's that sound?"
In truth, Vandal preferred not to partake of the game, but he too was curious to know about the friendly mercenary. He was, after all, starved of good friends. This could be his chance to make one after losing so many in the very recent past, "Fine. Who's gonna start?"
"I'll go first." Enris said, "Tell me honestly, how did you know how to kill those giants in Amendale?"
Vandal sighed deeply. He was trapped, he knew it the moment Enris started talking. But, seeing no point in hiding the truth about himself, he gave the man a straight answer. "Because I've killed them before. They're not from your world, Enris, they're from mine."
"Ah…I thought there was something different about you." The tall man grinned, "Good thing I know now that I can trust my gut when it tells me something. Well, now it's my turn."
He waited a bit and had to prod Vandal to ask his question, "Go on, I promise I'll give you just as straight of an answer as you did for me."
"Who are you, Enris?"
The tall man rubbed his chin, "Direct to the point, eh? I like that, though I warn you it's gonna be quite the answer." He chuckled as he recalled all the important bits about his life, "Where to begin? I was the result of a loveless joining between a nobleman and a whore. I was born in the dregs of Attre, raised among gangers and cutthroats who taught me how to box, shiv and steal before I reached my tenth birthday. I stole my first horse when I was twelve, rode as far as Rivia and started work as a muscle-for-hire."
Not the noblest of upbringings, but Vandal was not one to judge.
"Then, I took a job that proved to be too much of a bite for me to chew and got roughed up pretty badly. I was saved by a witcher."
"A witcher?" Vandal kept hearing that word whenever someone mentioned a monster. It seemed as if the two words were never that far from one another.
"Yeah, of the School of the Bear. Giant of a man, nasty temper like a mother bear, he dragged my scrawny hide out of the bloody alley and nursed me back to health. I saw him fight, and I wanted to learn how to do that too. The witcher gave me a mallet, pointed to the head and said one word 'swing'." Enris stared into the crackling flames of the fire as his mind went back to the memories he held so fondly to himself, "Now I know it was more of a joke to him, but I didn't then. I swung that mallet for hours every day at anything hard or stubborn I could find in my path- be it a thing, a man or a beast. Hours and hours, every day for the next twenty years. Things used to just crack under my swing, but now- they shatter."
"Yeah, I suppose that means his advice worked." Vandal remarked.
"True." Enris nodded, "And what about you, lad? What's your story?"
Vandal knelt before the flames of the fire and put his hands out to feel the warmth emanating from it, "I'm from a world called Saggrel, born in a place not unlike this one. The Valley of Thorns, my mother called it, for the rose fields that bloomed along its valleys."
"Ah, you were born in a noble family?" Enris asked, forgetting the rules of the game as did Vandal when he immediately answered.
"Yes." Vandal's fondest memory of his family was of the painting portraying him, his father and mother together in the study. Their faces of pastel and oil, perpetually smiling and devoid of any corruption. "Yes I was."
This was how he wanted to remember them. Happy and without a care in the world, not marred by the curse of undeath, writhing and contorting as they howled for a taste of his flesh.
"Saggrel died at the hands of a mad sorcerer king who desired the world, and killed it when he could not have it. His curse transformed it into a frozen wasteland, devoid of life and warmth. I became a knight not long after the curse was done, I served a good lord who wished to make the final moments worth something, served alongside many good knights who wanted to make a difference to what was left of our world. I am the last of them."
"Hmm…" Enris appreciated his willingness to share and gave the lad a comforting nudge, "Hey, you survived for them, boy. I'm sure they're proud of you."
"I guess so."
"They should, you helped us kill three giants in a single day and not to mention hundreds of undead buggers swarming over Amendale." Enris' smile slowly faded as he realized what the coming of those things meant, "Speaking of which, you have any idea why or how those things got here?"
Vandal pointed up to the sky at the looming world above, "It might, more or less, be because of that. Rest assured, I'll put all my best efforts to get to the bottom of it."
"I hope you figure it out." Enris turned to leave so he could fetch some sleep for himself, "Keep your weapon close tonight, lad. Be ready, we make for Cintra at first light."
The Isles of Skellige
An Skellig.
A miserable isle among many in the Skellige archipelago. Home to Clan Tuirseach, one of the mightiest clans among the people of Skellige, and to the young warrior Bran Tuirseach whose thread of destiny was yet to be woven in the grand tapestry of fate. That night, a mighty storm hammered against the isle, bringing with it the chilling winds of the newborn isles that fell from the sky.
Whereas the whole of the Continent trembled at the threat of the invaders from the outer world that loomed about its skies, the people of Skellige rejoiced at the promise of battles and the rich bounty that came with it. Such a notion would often be considered barbaric, but the people of Skellige cared little for the opinions of lesser men.
And the night the storm struck their home, the whole Clan feasted in the great mead hall of the jarl. There was feasting and fornication from one corner to another, the noise of merriment raised to rouse even the gods in the sky and sea. Warriors of all ages raised their tankards as they shared stories, boasted of their nightly exploits with many of the women slaves they took from past raids, and sang songs that stirred both the hearts of the adventurous and the degenerate.
"There were a dozen virgins, 'denians, 'gaards and 'trans!
We took 'em for some fuckin', and all we got were wanks!
Oh, we the men of Tuirseach, each a mighty Thane!
We'll pommel your asses, ravage all your lasses,
Then do it all again!"
"The prettiest of the virgins, so sweet like honeyed mead!
I told her I'd an urgin' for where to spend my seed!"
"The oldest of the virgins, she was a vandal lass!
I showed her my mighty weapon, and she showed me her ass!
I knew her for a whore, so I gave her all my codpiece,
and later I found that still she wanted more!"
"The finest of the lasses, her hair a'bright like fire!
I took her home with me, for many sons to sire!"
"The maidens had a mother, and she was rather nice!
She had a heart, I knew it so, it weren't made of ice!
This saucy mother of theirs, oh she was mighty hot!
She'd need a whole damn iceberg, to cool her burning twat!"
The raunchy song continued on and on, slowly fading off to give way to the more soothing music of the harps played right next to the jarl's throne. Bran was not present for much of the feast, as he was busy discussing with some of the more sober warriors at the door of the mead hall, speaking in hushed tones as they shared what they've learned about the new isles.
"The old druid sent his ravens to scout out the isles." Morun, a hideously scarred veteran of a hundred raids against the mainland, reported to Bran. "They found the walking dead wandering the earth, and sometimes dropping into the sea to drown in its embrace. But those of import, he says, is the great treasure hoards within the ruins."
"Of course he'd say that." Bran, a giant of a man with a clean-shaved face and long braided golden locks said to the warrior. "Well? Is that all?"
"There also be dragons guarding the hoards."
Estwald, a housecarl serving Bran's family, grinned. Him, being an devout follower of traditional islander faith, saw this as a sign from the gods. "Ha! A good omen, taking the hoards for the clan would certainly make us heroes."
"Or a sure way to die for nothing." Bran muttered.
"If you are uncertain of our chances, there's been news of a massive shard of ice striking the Bay of Winds. One of the fishermen spotted it resting at the heart of a the Howling Cave, it holds the frozen form of a dragon. What better way of testing our strengths than slaying the creature?"
Bran looked back at the feasting warriors and lowered his voice, "The Bay of Winds, are you sure?"
"Yes, that's why I hurried back here." Morun replied, "Tis certain to draw everyone's attention, perhaps we should lay claim to this bounty before anyone else?"
"Agreed." Bran said with a nod, "And it would be nice to test our skills on a dragon before embarking on an expedition to the Frozen Isles. Are we in agreement?"
"I shall fetch proper weapons, and perhaps better armor." The housecarl suggested.
"Good, good. We should take advantage of the storm." Morun said, having experienced hunts against the lesser kin of dragons on Skellige and beyond in the past. Rain and hail was instrumental against the reptiles, as demonstrated by the rune priests that set the elements against them at the Age of Tyr when the mighty warrior founded Clan Tuirseach. "It should aid us against the creature should it get free and attempt to flee."
"And we should bring more men." Bran, a gifted strategist among his kin, said finally. "Going it alone would surely end in disaster."
"Whatever we need to do, we must make haste." Morun looked to the drunken warriors stumbling about in the mead hall. "Lest they catch wind of our intentions."
The three warriors split up, each doing their assigned task with all due haste. Bran roused the abled men of the mead hall, only those who weren't too drunk and were his most trusted friends. Morun did the same, allowing the housecarl Estwald to fetch their armaments for the quest in slaying the dragon imprisoned in ice. They feared that if they did not act quickly, the ice may melt and the creature- if it wasn't dead already- would break free and fly away, taking with it their chances at fame.
When they finally assembled and armed themselves, Bran led the men out of the mead hall and away from the village to set upon the muddied path to the forgotten harbor of the Bay of Winds. The place was said to be cursed, due to the presence of drowners vomited out from the great sea, and so the islanders naturally avoided it. Still, young warriors frequented the place to test their skills before joining the raiders who would plunder the mainland on their seasonal voyages.
Thirteen men, loyal warriors who grew up and fought alongside Bran for many years, followed no one else but he. All of the clan looked to their jarl for guidance, but these called no one master save for Bran. He'd been with them through the blooding trials, the mischief they caused, and through funerals held in honor of their fallen brothers who died in battle. He was Bran Tuirseach, the Bear of An Skellig, or so his saga called him. Hanging around him was never boring, as he always had a nose for action.
"And I thought this night was going to be a dull affair." Estwald remarked, shielding himself from the hard rain with his buckler.
"It still might." Bran said, raising his voice a bit to combat the roar of the storm.
"With a dragon involved, I doubt it."
And so, drenched from the rain and chilled to the bone by the winds, the merry band arrived at the forgotten harbor. There, they found a massive trench dug in the wake of the shard as it struck the earth. It tore through the shores of the bay, uprooted trees by the dozen and tossed aside the ruined cottages as it rendered them into nothing but piles of debris.
The islanders drew their weapons forth, with those bearing spears and shields forming up to take point. Bran himself was among them, not one to skulk behind the others as he preferred to be the first into the fray, like every battle he'd led them through. "There, is that not the Howling Cave?" He pointed to the gaping maw of jagged stone carved by the elements into the mountain face not far from the Bay of Winds. The cave had once been a shelter to the druids of the isle, where they mourned the deaths of the great bears that Tyr and his thanes hunted in the olden days, earning it the ominous name that the islanders used even to present day.
"It is." Estwald replied, "And it would seem that the one we seek had indeed found shelter in the cave."
"Then we shall fight it there, but not in full force." Bran declared, "The cave is small, and a crowded battle against a dragon is sure to end swiftly with an inglorious death. I shall venture inside with only a handful of warriors. Should the beast attempt to escape through the mouth of the cave, those who remain shall strike the killing blow. I have spoken!"
Four warriors accompanied Bran into the cave, weapons at the ready and torches raised high to light the way.
Down through the narrow and steep corridor they went, avoiding the stream that bathed the floors from the outside as they made for the heart of the cave, soon coming across the ice shard that was mentioned in Morun's report. No amount of words that the man conveyed could amply describe the magnificent creature imprisoned in the slowly melting ice tomb.
Nestled among the broken stones and rubble, it was just as large as the jarl's longhouse. It lay within the shard, curled up as though it had taken shelter from a great blizzard. The dragon had scales of bright polished bronze that gleamed in the torchlight through the ice.
"Ye gods, the dragon's fatter than me mum in winter!" Estwald exclaimed, referring to how plump the creature looked.
"Must've feasted well before its entombment." Morun observed.
"That usually means it will be slow, right?" Bran asked as he thumped at the ice with the pommel of his sword. "Hmm, ice is quite thick. I don't think this dragon's coming out any time soon."
"Look there, I see some gold stuck with the dragon!" The one other warrior that accompanied Bran announced, pointing to the many coins frozen alongside the slumbering dragon. "It would surely be a rewarding endeavor if the beast should emerge."
There was a series of cracks as Bran backed away from the shard, alarming the men as tears started to form from the top of the shard till the bottom. From these tears came streams of melted ice that pooled onto the cave floor. Slowly, as the men backed up, the ice started coming apart.
"Ready yourselves, strike the beast once the ice clears!" Bran said. The ice crumbled, and the dragon awoke. It reared its head back and stared curiously as the men of Skellige, but did not attack.
Estwald bellowed out a warcry and charged alongside Morun, both planting spear and axe onto its scaly hide in an attempt to hack it apart. To their astonishment, their blades bounced off its hide as though they struck iron!
The dragon blinked twice, confused, then proceeded to stand so it could stretch its mighty wings. It sent both men flying back as it lumbered out of the heart of the cave, ignoring the islanders as they tried again and again in vain to strike it down. Eventually, the beast started to fight back, and its massive jaws seized Estwald by the arm as it took both shield and limb. It then proceeded to tear the housecarl's arm clean off his shoulder, and chewed the shield to splinters along with his arm.
The housecarl screamed in agony and dropped to the floor in a bloodied heap, only to be crushed underneath the dragon's feet when it started to climb out to make its way up the corridor to freedom.
Morun grabbed the dead man's spear and stood in the creature's path. Whether he was brave or stupid was a subject best left for history to interpret, and he raised his spear to hurl it against the dragon's throat. The weapon bounced off the scales, and the dragon looked at him as if it were mocking his efforts. It then yawned and sent a torrent of fire to reduce the poor man into ash. The heat from the flames caused Bran and the one remaining warrior at his disposal to recoil, allowing the creature ample time to worm its way up the path and into the outside world.
The islander noticed that the dragon was somehow burdened with something, as its movements were quite sluggish as a drunkard would act in the morning. Seized by a mad thought, Bran leaped onto the dragon's back and thrust his sword in the narrow crevices between its scales to try and latch on.
The dragon emerged from the Howling Cave, facing more of Bran's warriors that it promptly swatted aside as it began to take flight. Bran was beside himself, at a complete loss on what to do next save for holding on for dear life.
When the dragon, weighed down by its unseen cargo, tired of its flight, it landed atop the sacred mountain of Yngvar's Fang, also known as Mount Aardeklove to the locals. The proper term would be crash-landing, for it rolled suddenly in mid-air and plummeted into the mountain. The rush of the fall robbed Bran of his breath, and he braced himself for the eventual crash that would result from the dragon's descent.
The old ruins of Castle Tuirseach, that once belonged to his family but was subsequently destroyed in Jarl Torgeir the Red's war against the Black Ones, otherwise known as the Nilfgaardians or 'gaards. This came to view as soon as they pierced through the thick fog that usually wrapped the crown of the mountain, obscuring it from the eyes of men from below. The dragon struck one of the old towers of the keep and sent stones flying, but Bran did not release his grip.
The beast did not cry out, nor did he, and it came to rest as it slid across the ramparts, finally stopping its mad rampage.
Bran leaped off the beast, shaking off the effects of the fall as he approached the head with sword in hand. When he reached the face of the dragon, he stopped short as he realized that the creature was already dead. Puzzled and scratching his head in confusion, Bran looked down and saw a gaping wound in the monster's breast.
This one was not made by him or his men, it was a wound that had long remained on the dragon even before it left its icy prison. Bran despaired, for he knew that they hunted after a dying dragon. Alas, there would be no honor in this hunt.
Bran shrugged, opting to conceal his discovery. No one needed to know the truth. He had played a part in its death, and that was all that mattered. His saga would be sung from every hall in An Skellig, songs of Bran the Dragonslayer. Only he would know the truth, and he would bury the secret deep. The gods would understand, for they were also the patrons of cunning.
Bran's eyes fell to the dragon's fat belly and he raised his sword to cut into the soft hide that remained unprotected by the thicker scales. He relished the acrid stench that came from the spilling of its guts, and Bran worked his blade further to reach the dragon's heart. He stopped again when he parted the guts and saw a very intact tomb of flesh just behind the stomach.
A womb. The dragon was a female!
Two dragons in one day, Bran smiled at the thought and cut a vicious gash through the womb to free the unborn dragonling within.
To his surprise, it was no dragonling that emerged from the dragon's womb- but a woman. She tumbled out of the fleshy tomb and into the cold embrace of the world. Bran was stunned and he stood aside mutely as his mind struggled to comprehend what he just saw.
The maiden's naked body was drenched in thick yellow fluids, sticky as muck but sweet like honey. Her arms and legs twitched, indicating that she was alive. She curled up in response to the cold and started convulsing. Her mouth opened as she vomited out more of the yellow stuff, and started to cry like a newborn babe.
Bran knelt beside her, guided by compassion but hesitant due to suspicion. His hands reached for the cowl that was wrapped around his shoulders, and he covered the woman as he pulled her up into his arms to warm her up. She coughed three times, then sneezed. The warrior frowned as he looked around for a way off the ruins.
"Interesting day." He muttered.
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