The Revelation of the Vine: Graft

Chapter 1: The Wake

  A strange, yet familiar voice called to me while I was asleep. "Time for the Wake, V; we're approaching the Cliff." When I heard it, I looked toward its origin, and saw a bright shadow in the apex of darkness. A knock upon wood followed the words, echoing as loud as a bass drum in the center of my mind, and I was whisked away from the obscure dreamscape toward the silhouette of light. Consciousness began to dominate my subconscious, and the dark awareness of the Wake surrounded me as my soul rose up from the Rest Cycle. Now the explosion of my senses would begin. I heard the sounds of wheels turning and clomping horseshoes clacking against stone; of clanking armor ringing and heavy footsteps crunching through snow. I heard the rustle of the wind in the trees outside, the low howls and high whistles as it curved and bent around the trunks and branches, and in the distance, I heard the natural notes of what we called the Peal of the Vine, as it meandered through the mountains and the Vale of the Horn. The repeating calls of birds rose into the air like the sharp notes of flutes and flat notes of trumpet blasts; songs and whistles and caws to herald the approaching dawn. Short bursts of woodpeckers' beaks thumped upon the cold wood of tall trees high above, and the crunches of twigs from small animals scurrying through frosty brush echoed in the distance. I heard dozens of heartbeats thumping all around me, including my own within me. Some, at the same time, others on the offbeat; some slow and others excitedly fast, almost in perfect synch to the Rythm of the Peal. "This is it," I heard someone whisper from not too far away, but their voice was as clear as day. "We're gonna be Lemnis Knights today." "Yea," another responded dryly, yet as loudly as if they were speaking right next to me, "If we don't die along the way." "Don t worry about that, brah," the first voice persuaded the other. "I won't let you die. Just stick with me and you'll make it." "Yeah right Atreios," the second voice jested, and I heard a soft thump as if he'd jabbed his friend in the shoulder. "I'd rather stick with that Veilian over there; he looks way tougher than you." The mention of the Veilian caused a tremor in my consciousness, and I began to feel disoriented and desynchronized from my mind. This had never happened before, and I suddenly felt terrified. A stream of light sliced through the darkness of my mind, but I saw nothing. Suddenly, I began to hear other voices, fading in where the noises of the world had been. They were scared voices, all familiar but strangely indistinguishable, just as the first voice was when I was asleep. They were hollering and screaming but I couldn't understand what they were saying. Then I heard something else from outside, and it pulled me back in sync with the Wake. More footsteps, heavy, but this set was right outside, and sounded like someone tearing thick stacks of paper. Normally, I was used to the overwhelming sensations of the Wake, every sense of the body operating at uncontrolled levels until I gained control over myself. Normally, I could gain control quicker, but rising into it without remembrance, and then the undulating feeling of the disturbance caused by the mere mention of a Veilian was a shock I'd never experienced. Something was strange. For 750 years, it had always been like the first time under the tree in the vale; just like the day I came back from the dead. But this time, for the first time, I almost forgot where I was; almost forgot who I was . . . what I was. I focused on the sounds of the footsteps outside until they began to sound like normal footfalls. My hearing began to stabilize as the sounds that were further away began to fade. I pulled the Rest Shroud from my face, opened my eyes, and took a deep breath as I looked around and watched the infrared glow of the world around me come into focus. Cool purples and deep blues formed the background of everything, contrasted by forms of orange, yellow, red, and green in the foreground. A bright, red-orange form, that I recognized as a horse, hovered just a few yards behind me, and another bobbed about a dozen feet beyond my feet, while a third, humanoid form, warped around between us. I blinked and then focused my eyes to see what lay above the infrared layer. The dim light of morning came into focus as the thermal energy faded behind the surfaces. I blinked again, the spectrums blended together, and the interior of my wagon filled with detail. Brown, white, and black furs were stitched together as the covering of the wagon. A few open seams here and there let in thin, harp-string bands of soft, crisscrossing light that spotlighted floating particles in the air, and constantly changed angles as the wagon bumped along the uneven road. As I blinked away the last remnants of the Rest, the soft internal glow of soul-energy became visible, and I felt my muscles start to come to life. I recognized the blue-white radiance of Jurgen's soul, shining behind the thin cover beyond my feet, where the third blob of heat had been. He walked behind the wagon waiting for me to complete the Wake, and I tapped a wooden post of the wagon's frame with my foot to let him know I had returned from the beyond the Veil. I took a deep breath and held it in. The familiar scent of pine trees and fresh snow, hidden behind the other less pleasant, yet more prevalent, scents of the caravan eased my mind and reminded me that I was nearly home. The violet light of pre-dawn broke through the draped opening in the back of the wagon as it folded away. Jurgen's bulky silhouette stepped into the light. It took less than a moment for my eyes to adjust to the shadow he cast and intensify the surrounding light so that his details came into view. Jurgen was a large bear of a G'mirri, a north born of Frostmarsh, with large brown eyes and a white beard. He saw no need for an under shirt, and wore his breastplate over his bare skin, leaving his muscular, bear-like arms exposed to the cold air. The snow-laden land of Frostmarsh, lies in the northern most part of Dahn, just west of the Un'terra. North of Mavae and Empirium, and east of Nook's Boot, the southern end is highly elevated where it meets with the cliffs of Fahlain, and gradually falls northward into a coast of frosty marshland and glaciers. The Gmirri are the hardiest of warriors, battling the ferocious weather and beasts of the north for many centuries. Now, they count for a majority of our ranks, and stand as a frontline against the Soulless hordes that seem to rise up without end in the Un'Terra. Thanks for the Wake, J, I whispered, and tossed my blanket aside then slid my legs off the bed as I sat up. He bowed slightly, forming the sign of the Lemniscata in front of his chest with his hands, and then vanished after hanging the flap on a nail outside. I could see the wagon behind mine in the gentle twilight of early morning, rising and lowering in different corners as the wheels rolled over the uneven road. The cold emptiness behind its cover told me that its occupants had already emerged a while ago. A tan, long-haired horse named Keen bit into his harness in front, and steam issued from his nostrils with every breath as he pulled the heavy cart over the bumpy cobblestones. "Captain's awake," Jurgen hollered as he passed by my end of the wagon. "Get your lily butts in gear. Hop to it!" His voice was deep and gruff, and normally loud, like the blast of a ram's horn before battle, but right now it sounded like a tornado just touched down in my ear canal. Whoa, Jurgen, I thought, laughing while I slipped a black shirt-jacket over my head, and waited for the ring in my ears to dissipate. "Wow," I heard a voice that was different from the first two whisper beneath the ring. "Did you see that?" "Yea," another different voice said. "I swear his voice just made the air vibrate." "And you better take 10 more steps away from my sleeping quarters before you open that trumpet you call a mouth," I yelled through the neck of my breastplate, as I slid my arms and head through. The fur ceiling ruffled in the wake of my voice, but at least I had an excuse. The first words from the throat always came out with a release of force after the Rest. The caravan erupted in a short blast of laughter followed by the sound of Jurgen's gauntlet smacking his helmet. I heard him whisper faintly, so that only I could hear him, "Sorry, V." and then a loud, "Yes, Sir!" for the rest. I fastened my greaves and then hopped out of the wagon through a flap in the side, grabbing my cloak from a hook on the way. Once I was out in the open, I breathed in the fresh northern chill, and stared out toward the snowy, mountainous landscape I'd called home for the past 750 years.