In the world of Valterra, where ancient forces of light and darkness clash, the Primordials awaken. Marcus, a seasoned warrior, embarks on a perilous quest to unite a group of extraordinary beings known as the Primordials to face the Dark and its mi...
Faeron lay in the brush wounded and winded. He was still on top of his sleeping roll, next to a small fire pit which had died out overnight. Any small movement sent a shrilling pain throughout his body. His hands pressed against his side to curb the bleeding slash that seeped his energy and where most of the pain radiated. How had this happened? He should have been protected. His tunic was made with the finest copper coloured leather from a kelpie's hide. In all his years protecting the humans, not a sword or arrow had ever pierced it, yet somehow, now it failed him. His bones ached, his muscles tense and sore, and several other cuts on his arms and back made his flesh sizzle. This can't be happening, it shouldn't be possible.
He was a few leagues from Bolster City in a vast forest called The Wilds. The oldest forest in the land, once covering most of Valterra before the Shattering, it stretched from North to South and was where he spent most his time, at least on the Mainlands. It was ripe with life, and still carried the magic of old, with creatures from this time and from a time long forgotten. Many had survived the Shattering, but most the nymphs, gnomes and fauns stayed out of sight. He was told once that even the mighty Cernunnos lived among its trees, but Faeron never come across any signs of him, only deer and elk, the mighty brown bear, and all the other animals he had grown accustomed to. He usually felt comfort within its boundaries, unlike the rocky shores of Altnahara, or the desert wasteland of the Scourge, the Wilds reminded him of home.
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But now he could only lay in agony. He moaned up to the soaring treetops parenting the shaded shrubs which still held their pink and red blossoms even though Cétshamain was just around the corner. Birds sang in the distance and above him, critters stirred up dried branches and mulch from winter's past. Why did I think to come here?
Then he remembered the witch.
He was wary of witches. They could sense his magic and it wasn't something he liked to showcase. Though witches had grown scarce, their power lost with generations. Those he had encountered led mainly solitary lives, or didn't even realize they held magic within themselves This witch seemed to be the latter for she was living in the capital. What witch would risk such a bold move? Bolster City had the fastest growing population in Valterra, it seemed everyone was looking to make their way in and lead a different kind of life. Not any sort of life he would ever want. He needed space, and open air. Of course life as Warden was more solitary than his life would have been if he had stayed at home. But in a way, this was his true home. Yet this witch was in the thick of society which presented another problem. He was wary of humans.
Sure, he was their protector, but only through duty. Most humans didn't even know his kind existed, let alone was bound to honour a bond when magic was deemed too dangerous to continue on the surface. His kind was blamed for the Shattering, and a truce was forged with the humans that their magic would never be used against them, and they would send help if ever the Dark were to stir on the surface again.
Faeron was the eyes and ears of his kind. Still, he only ventured this close to human civilization when he sensed he was needed. As Warden, it was his duty only to intervene in human matters when he felt it was necessary. Now his own need brought him towards the city, he never thought he would require the help of a human, much less a witch. But she could be his only hope. Hunkered, damaged and alone, he knew nothing in his power could help. He needed to make it to the strong feminine magic resonating from inside the walls of the city before he succumbed to his wounds.
He'd been deep in the Wilds when the dreams began. He sat up as the pain seared and an image of the draug who cut him down flashed before his eyes. He still didn't know how his wounds even existed, dreams aren't supposed to have real life consequences and the draugar had been wiped out in the Shattering five hundred years ago.
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Though his dreams did begin with the Bringers, the men and women possessed by the Dark to fight in what the humans today called the Great War. He had killed hundreds of them only decades ago, and it weighed heavy on his sacred duty. He thought his guilt was what brought on the dreams, his failure to find the Fallen One and free the Bringers instead of having to slaughter them and risk them turning. Thinking of it at all pained him to the core. Luckily, back then, someone had stopped the Fallen One before it was too late, but it wasn't Faeron.
Now, in his dreams, they rose. The Bringers he fought and killed began to metamorphose into draugar; living rotting humans with no souls, no flowing essence, no lifeblood running through their veins. He heard stories of these abominations when he was a child, and again in his studies to become Warden, but he never thought he would actually encounter one face to face. Now he fought countless hordes of them, night after night. His twin blades sliced them apart, swiftly and accurately, but they kept coming. He escaped death time and time again and each morning he woke with a putrid stench up his nose, burning lungs and wounds that should not be. He finally succumbed to his need for help. His dreams were all to real. His blood was living proof.
The Soulless. The dead reborn.
Even the trees bellowed at his thought of them.
"I'll live," he mocked their lack of concern for the state he was in. His often sought the shelter of these particular trees. They were the easiest to speak to and now they helped him hone in on the witch's presence he felt in Bolster. He groaned and stood, still pressing his side to ease the throbbing. When he took a step forward the pain only worsened. It was the deepest of his wounds and it continued to weaken him. It bled through the honey wrap he had made and now through his shirt.
He tried to push the pain away and verify the witch was still in the city. He felt her first two days prior, and reluctantly her trail led him towards the capitol. He stayed camped out close to the border of the Wilds in hopes she would move on from Bolster so he could approach her without any prying eyes. But it had been three days since he'd arrived, and he could wait no longer. The pain crept into every crevice of his body, it was almost unbearable, even for him. Determined to make it there on foot today, he hoped she was as gifted as she felt. It had been generations since feeling such promise from a human witch, and like his dreams, this haunted him.
