It’s been a while since I last made any kind of post, so I thought I’d share something from my current major project. Without context, this is the chapter that I feel best reflects the tone and direction I chose to use in order to take The Elder Ones into the future.
It also best represents my… very eccentric style of writing, which I often find myself criticised for, even though it encapsulates my personality with utter perfection. But, without further ado, enjoy the following excerpt from The Elder Ones Part 2 – Earth Splitter.
To the Ends of the Earth
Auroch’s heavy footfalls ensure that everything runs smooth on the deck of the fluyt that flies across the treacherous waves of the Northern Sea. The King’s uncle knows that his destination lies hidden somewhere beyond the scope of modern maps but his determination to achieve any goal that he sets, or others task him to do is undeniable.
In this case, his own nephew ordered him through a long-winded and often contrived choice of words to do everything in his power to find the creator of the legendary sword, Fang. Auroch spent the first couple of days of his quest recovering answers for questions he did not know he had. Of course, he did not need to try too hard as the omnipresent threat of the fanatical army the King now keeps inside his walls to guard Buulan always make sure their presence will remain at the forefront of the minds of even the simplest plebeian.
It was the third day that help came from an unexpected and unwanted source in the form of the Athenaeum’s de facto leader, Lady Dané Arcensteyn. The well-connected guild master offered up the quite substantial amount of information that she possessed for little more than a promise – a promise that she would be the first to set foot on the fabled continent of Dragon’s End. This request made Auroch uneasy, as even he knows that those not descended in some way from Tor’s bloodline would taint the very heart of the ancient homeland of the Kulvaan peoples.
He did agree to her request, though his reservations and reluctance were nothing if not repeated to everyone that boarded the Acheron. The two-deck fluyt is an old ship and it bears the hallmarks of Rylnaar shipwrights associated with the Ashaan Assassin’s Athenaeum. Auroch remembers the vessel with fuzzy and vague memories and he recalls it to be one of the many ships that sunk under mysterious circumstances several years prior.
The light and sleek footsteps of Lady Dané approach the bow of the ship behind the rugged and three-day-unshaven Auroch. He does not acknowledge her with any words and instead he gives a complex hand signal that causes her to stand still a few metres behind him.
‘It’s dangerous for you to be up here, milady. These men don’t often have a lady with them on the open seas, and I can’t guarantee you any form of protection. After all, I’m not the fighter I was in my younger days and I’m almost certain any of these strapping seamen would deliver quite the pounding to my arse. Though it would take more than a few of them to break my defences,’ Auroch says.
Dané glances around at her surroundings. The odd barrel and tangle of rope are the sole adornments of the forecastle, old as they might be. Beyond, the tumultuous sea rocks the Acheron with the greatest of ease and the fog only serves to grow denser as time goes on. In Lady Arcensteyn’s mind, it makes sense for a place like Dragon’s End to have a permanent shroud of fog to mask its location from eyes that seek to gain wealth and fame and riches from the mythical vaults said to adorn the First Continent.
‘We’re close. I can smell it in the air. The seas grow restless, though they are not so bad anymore. I feel my suspicions were right. That cry the day we left Denarr was indeed one of the gods of old letting out a vicious death throe. What is more, I believe it were the one that best embodied the seas,’ the Athenaeum Matriarch says.
The legendary soldier clenches his jaw at the mention of what he knows as the fable Dûgán. He might not be the kind to believe in mythological creations or the ramblings of priests who believe in outlandish religious theories, but he admits there is evidence to support such theories. The stoic-faced man continues to stare out over the sea.
‘You’re one of those types, are you? Are you someone who can tell everything there is to know about a certain topic by reading the air like the seers of old? You don’t know half the truth of what those things are capable, milady. I suspect that in your entire life you’ve not seen or heard the first whiff of any kind of real battle. I’ve seen firsthand what the power of those beasts can do, and it is worse than any story that you tell of them,’ Auroch says.
In the fog, the black silhouettes of large and unfamiliar birds with huge wingspans penetrate the greyness. These are of course belonging to the Praetor Eagles and they serve as the last great predator present on Dragon’s End. The Lady of the Athenaeum and the King’s uncle straighten out to watch a couple of the shadows swoop and swirl around in the low cloud that kisses the Northern Sea. Several minutes pass but the Acheron, after its long and often treacherous journey from the Denarr docks, comes again into sight of a landmass. Not a familiar landmass, but one that resonates with evil.
‘Your resolve is about to be put to the test, Sir. There are things in this world you do not understand. You also underestimate all those around you. You might enjoy the reputation of being your father’s hammer but being humble is not your forte and it shows in everything that you do, Sir. I have seen more battles than you know, so do not tell me that I do not know the truth behind the stories that I tell,’ Dané says.
Behind the duo, a dozen seamen rush around the deck as they anchor several sails and reset jibs and prepare the Acheron for landfall. They can see the fuzzy mountains reaching out to the sky like eerie fingers and appear to house a sinister secret somewhere in their vicinity. There is no truth to that widespread rumour, and the risk of any of the hundreds of dormant volcanoes across the First Continent erupting again is so low that many suspect the lack of such activity is what killed the civilisations that once thrived here.
‘Enough with the games, milady. There is a reason we are here. I would rather not stay a second longer than I need to. Prepare the rest of the expedition so we can brief them on our objective,’ Auroch says.
Without a word, the Athenaeum Matriarch gives a stern nod and rushes away to head below deck. The King’s uncle grabs the rail of the Acheron so tight his knuckles turn to bone. As cold as Kulvaan gets, even the impassive soldier finds that the chill on the air this far north is almost unbearable. Of course, with the frozen temperatures, one’s mind often plays cruel tricks and so as Auroch looks at Dragon’s End get ever closer, he sees ancient boat-like figures in the waters ahead of the Acheron alongside various voices that no one alive would ever recognise.
‘Anything can happen out here. We must remain vigilant for we are the last hope for our mighty peoples. Somewhere across this vast ocean lies our destiny and our new home! I chose all of you for this one purpose and I do not expect much from you, but to follow me,’ a deep voice booms from a single mast longship.
This is one of thirty such phantom vessels that Auroch sees. As they pass closer, the familiar lantern chins, squared jaws, and bushy eyebrows come into focus. This look finds itself plastered on almost every statue in every city across Kulvaan. The King’s uncle knows this look to belong to those of Tor’s bloodline and he surmises that the ghost voice he hears in the wind does indeed belong to the legend himself.
‘You do not realise the dangers that you are engaging yourself in by doing this ruinous thing! You need to think of your people and the course of action that would benefit their mundane lives! Think of them above your own vain and selfish ambitions! There are enemies across the seas that even I can comprehend and even with such warnings, you would still risk the utter ruin of your people, of our people! I urge you to reconsider your plans and I beg of you to preserve what little honour and respect the elders still possess of you!’ a fell voice cries out.
Auroch knew that the guardians were long-lived, but even he could not anticipate that the Mathias he knows is the same as the one who escorted Tor himself several centuries prior. Several more phantom longboats fade into vision, and the total in the water comes to fifty, though this number contradicts what the history books mentioned of Tor’s expedition. Auroch realises for the first time that it was not five hundred, but two thousand and five hundred of the strongest and best that Dragon’s End had to offer of those who best represented the moribund civilisation.
‘This is a strange place. Keep your eyes open and your ears on a constant vigil,’ Auroch bellows.
No one else aboard the Acheron makes a sound as the vessel navigates its way through treacherous shallows such that the rocky ridges come within critical distance of the hull. Every so often one of the many seamen glance at the mountains of the First Continent with a small degree of hope, only to find that they do not seem to get any closer, no matter how many hours pass. The sun kisses the firmament of the waters of the Northern Sea before any visible progress makes itself known to those aboard the Acheron.
Auroch stands alongside Dané on the aft castle of the ship. They say nothing and instead focus on the long-winded howls of the wind that drive the sails forward at a crawl. This might seem quite dissonant, but in a hostile and frigid place like the borders of Dragon’s End, such belligerent weather is par for the course, given the tumultuous nature of the tectonic plates that the continent finds no mercy from at any point in time.
Mere seconds before night does settle in, a flash of red flame pierces the fog and those aboard the Acheron bear witness to a unique and one of the most elusive phenomena across all Terrus as, if by some mystical power, the entirety of the grey fog lifts in every direction all at once. The sight that beholds those few who bear witness to it is like something that the storytellers of old would weave to those who would listen.
The continuous stream of molten rock that pours from the largest and most distant mountain ensures that, although the continent lies in perennial coldness, the ground is in a state of permanent thaw. The shoreline is a black ash that emanates a perpetual steam as if hot.
‘Welcome to the Dead Lands, Sir. The origin of everything that was, is, and ever will be lies within the borders of this continent. I do not expect our welcome will receive a warm welcome by any of the remaining flora and fauna. Be on your guard,’ Dané says.
No one aboard the Acheron rushes to do anything and the glow of the caldera transfixes the gaze of the lowborn seamen. Auroch and Dané are among the few who prepare to disembark the fluyt and even though they move as quiet as they can, the silence of the world around the Acheron is so utter that all sound resonates many times louder than it should. The occasional grumble and gargle of the volcano rings out from the mighty caldera.
Auroch clambers down the side of the Acheron and his heavy frame rocks the longboat when he drops into it. Dané slides in next to him with such litheness, the boat does not rock at all. The sailors on the oars begin to move after a stern nod from the commander.
Even with the inferno that threatens to consume Dragon’s End, the waters remain calm. Several isolated pockets of steam erupt through the surface every few seconds, powered by the cracks in the mantle below. Veins of orange streak along the ocean floor and in a thousand years, it is probable that Dragon’s End will cease to exist.
‘I don’t want to spend too long here. We aren’t here for science, and our primary goal lies somewhere in the mountains near the port. Keep a hand on your weapons and don’t move away from the group,’ Auroch says. He turns to Dané and leans into her. ‘This is the birthplace of my ancestors. I have a feeling they never wanted their children to come back here.’
Dané smirks at his comment. She knows what it feels like to come back to an ancestral home after centuries of not being there. She also recognises the danger presented by the shades that lurk in the periphery of her vision in the ashen mist.
‘From a young age, the masters of the Athenaeum teach young recruits not to dwell on the past for it clouds our judgement and makes things harder to do. I cannot tell you not to remove all memories of your past, but I can advise you to forget what your ancestors would think. All you must do is think of what Kylnarr Auroch, Commander of the Kulvaan Empire would do to ensure his family name remains present in the annals of history.’
Auroch sways a little as the longboat runs up a sandbar and comes to a halt. He narrows his eyes on the shallows around the craft to see no sign of life or any form of danger. This is something out of the ordinary for the rest of Terrus, but the barrenness fits ‘The Dead Lands’ moniker afforded to Dragon’s End.
‘Do not touch the water,’ Dané hisses at an eager seaman. ‘It might appear to be safe, but there is something miniscule in the shallows and it waits for idiots like you. Look.’
Dané takes a small piece of meat from her backpack and lobs it into the water. On impact, the water begins to churn as a school of piranha swarm the meat. In a few seconds, nothing remains of the raw red slab and an eerie calmness falls over the surface once more.
‘How’d you know that would happen? You said you’ve never been here before,’ Auroch says.
Dané adjusts her jerkin and gives a stern nod to the rowers. They use all their might to push the longboat free of the sandbar. The shore of Dragon’s End is a half kilometre away, though the journey is slow. Fingers of bleached and dead coral reach up to scrape the underside of the boat. They serve as ghosts of a place that once throve with all manner of life.
‘Looks deceive, Sir. A calm body of water is anything but that. We have these types of creatures in secluded glens in Ashaan,’ Dané says.
The only thing that remains present on the journey to the shore is the ominous volcano and the potential for it to erupt looms in the minds of all of them. They make it ashore without hassle, but they find the ground far hotter than normal the moment they disembark the longboat. Auroch thanks the royal smiths for their forethought and the addition of an insulating layer of cloth that reduces the scalding temperature of the sands.
‘We move as fast as we can. This heat will be the death of us before too long. Form up!’ Auroch bellows.
No one complains as the half-dozen strong shore party jogs up the beach to a low ridge. Several gasps and murmurs come from the younger members amongst the group when they crest the hill. The blackened and charred ruins of a city stretch out before the group. These remnants of Wuungrad are the sole remainder of the once prosperous people of Dragon’s End. The presence of preserved ashen bodies indicate that a pyroclastic flow ravaged the streets and froze merchants and traders in time.
Auroch leads the small group along a cobbled road lined with tall walls. He looks around at the bodies of mothers who still cradle their children. Hands covered faces in a futile attempt to protect against the heated ash flow. Several faces sit scrunched up with open jaws and relay a pain so intense that there are no words in common, or Kulvaanan, or Dûgánnan to describe it.
‘These people endured no pain in their final moment. The heat would’ve overloaded their brain the instant the cloud touched them. They died in an instant. A shame, because they would’ve had many stories to tell and a quick death is no mercy. The temperature must’ve been unbearable in the moment of impact and it shows that not even the gods are benevolent,’ Dané mutters.
It is rare for the Athenaeum matriarch to feel affected by anything, but the sight of innocent civilians destroyed in a manner like this leaves her stunned. The suddenness of the eruption that caused such wanton destruction was such that the side of the volcano ruptured to form a new caldera halfway down the basalt cliffs.
The group continues a slow waltz through the market square of Wuungrad. Petrified fruit lies scattered and fused to people, buildings, and the cobblestones of the square. It is a grim sight that not even the colourful robe Auroch wears can break the monotonous grey.
‘I wonder what they were thinking throughout the duration of this catastrophic event. What kind of lives they led and how they dressed. We’ll never know what their thoughts were of Tor’s expedition, but now we know why Tor crossed the sea,’ Auroch says.
The King’s uncle pauses next to a broken statue whose arm lies cracked and shattered on the ground next to it. There is no face on it unlike the others around it. No indication of who the statue once depicted is anywhere in sight.
‘A memory forgotten. Whoever this was did something great, but later generations erased them from society. A shame. The history of an individual might not matter, but it is important to remember who we are and where we came from,’ Dané says with uncertainty evident in her voice.
Auroch kneels and pieces together the broken arm with his mind. He furrows his brow not in frustration, but in concentration. When he figures out the exact position of the arm, he turns his head around and glares past some ruins.
‘This wasn’t to signify a leader. It signifies a paragon statue that never found completion. What we need is that way,’ Auroch says. Dané and the others in the group look to where the King’s uncle points. The faded silhouette of an ancient workshop dangles on the side of a precarious cliff. Without any word of confirmation, Auroch marches with purpose along a narrow street and the others have no choice but to follow him as the volcano lets out another low rumble. Something does not want them to get any closer.
Fenrir's Lair 