Private Dark Visions | A Fallen Enclave Story

[Saeroth]

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Objective: Dark Visions
Location: The Mountains of Beganar
Tags: Ba'khran | Amon

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His chest heaved as he awoke.

At first, it was as though he were choking on the gasps of air, but soon enough his breathing normalized. Sweat lined Særoth's brow, causing his snow-white hair to cling to his skin. His eyes were wide open at first, but soon closed tightly - as if themselves clinging to the last vestiges of sleep that weighed his eyelids down. He slumbered deeply, yet at the same time - felt as though he were at the edge of another consciousness. His dream was... vivid, and altogether almost tangible.

He could see the great city of old - towering about the countryside as it stretched high into the heavens. He saw an icon lost to time; an unholy sigil of the oppression of man when they sought to bring the whole world under its Dominion.

He saw death, and sorrow; the misery and suffering of his people as they toiled under the lash and abased themselves for lesser beings.

And yet he also saw deliverance, shrouded in a cloud of darkness, and offering an outstretched hand. He felt its touch, cold and otherworldly, grip his chin as if from a parent clasping the chin of a child to look into their eyes. He stared long and hard into eyes that were black and deep, filled with a starry expanse that altogether made him feel insignificant; as though he were a mere spec of dust in the primordial chasm of creation itself.

Then at last he awoke.

His head rested between both of his hands for a moment as he collected himself. After a moment, he arose from his bed and paced to a copper-lined basin set within a stone recess, as if carved from the stone walls of his cavernous chamber. His hands dipped within the cool water, and together lifted as his head dipped down into his palms - washing the final remnants of sleep from his face. He dipped his hands down and back up into his face again, allowing the water to stream down to the stone floor as his face canted backward.

Warm hands caressed his naked form behind him, followed by a sing-song feminine voice. "Are you well, my love?" The Dre Fæmoran woman was also naked, her pale skin shaped with an athletic, though womanly form behind Særoth. She drew her body against his, and offered a kiss on his cheek. His head inclined toward her as her lips found purchase, a low grunt escaping his lips in response. She produced a scrap of cloth, of which he accepted to wipe the residual moisture from his face.

"...Yes, I'm well. Moreso than I have been for a while, in fact." His voice was a low rumble, as though he were not yet convinced he were still awake. His eyes lingered on the beautiful woman before him, who set about the basin he was just at herself - washing away the remaining vestiges of night in favor of the coming day.

She glanced in his direction, a faint smile at her lips. "You have not awoken with such a start in a long while. It made me wonder what malady had befallen you."

Finally, Særoth smiled at his lover, who herself broadened the grin as she finished washing the sleep from her eyes and put on her clothes. Særoth, for his part, did the same - adorning himself with a sable black hide tunic, studded trousers, and well made boots from some form of cayman. He emerged from his chambers and was greeted by another Dre Fæmoran male with black hair pulled back into a pony tail. He bowed to Særoth, but otherwise remained silent. It was Særoth who broke the silence between them. "Summon Ba'khran, and the warchief Amon for an audience. We have important matters to discuss."

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[Amon]

Saeroth, Ba'khran

Theme

Amon's day had seemed much similar to countless others in recent months...

Hunt... kill... capture... interrogate to find where the pockets of Mann were hiding...

But he yearned for more, for he knew that there was so... so incredibly much more satisfaction to be had. He had done what he could, from day... to day... to day... and each night... and back to the day again. The efforts put forth by his warband were a start, surely, but things were moving slowly.

He wanted retribution. He wanted justice.

Mann was a fickle, weak species, only held together by the most fragile of strings. They knew nothing of the vastness of time... the world... of existence. Their perception was inherently flawed, and there was no way for them to go back. The fae had tried to guide them... once... only to be met with hatred and genocide. Yet, Amon's people endured... seeing countless humans give way to their inevitable demise. Yes... his people would endure...

They were meant to endure...

Amon had just finished pulling the nails from the hands of a tribesman that had refused to reveal his people's temporary sanctuary. It was amusing, to say the least. Amon knew that the tribesman would talk, eventually. There was no hiding from inevitable tide of vengeance he and his people would unleash. It was only a matter of time...

Suddenly, a small, gangly individual made himself known. Grindyl, was his name. His spindly arm reached up, tugging at Amon's sleeve as he gazed at his prisoner.

"My lord... forgive my intrusion, but Særoth has summoned you for an audience..."

As Amon turned to the wretch, Grindyl recoiled, almost out of base instinct. Amon's cold, golden eyes looked down upon him, and even through his frigid demeanor, he managed a slight grin.

"Very well... let's not keep him waiting..."

 

[Ba'khran]

His private chambers

The cold stone felt damp under his fingers. His mind had settled there, fixed upon the sensation as the rest of him began to slip. He did not fall. Something held him, a searing cord drawn tight between worlds, its core turning with a quiet insistence, pulling at the light until it warped and clung to it like oil. He remained bound to the ground, seated at the centre of the dais, the low candlelight guttering toward extinction with each moment the incantation endured.

His eyes did not close. They did not open. Still, he saw. Forms passed through him like currents, vast and formless, pressing at the edge of his being, searching for purchase. They strained against him, not with thought, but with need, a blind insistence that scraped and tore at the boundary he held. Ba'khran did not yield. He held fast, every part of him drawn tight against the pressure, refusing them entry.

He spoke softly the incantation he had pieced together from texts both ancient and terrible, won at a cost he did not care to measure. The steps of the dais were slick with blood, darkened and thick about him. He paid it no mind.

"Dra vel. Thur en vel."

The cord strained, not from force alone, but from imbalance, each turn of its core correcting what sought to unmake it. The light resisted his shaping, thickening where it should have thinned, clinging where it should have passed cleanly through.

His lips parted, the words forming without breath.
"Dra vel. Thur en vel. Ven dra kel."

At once the turning slowed, drawn into alignment, held within the narrow bounds of his control.

Something pressed against it.

"Skarn!" he cried, his eyes ablaze with an inferno of azure.

There was a pulse of magik. The air in the chamber froze, the heat stripped from it for a single beat before returning with sudden, violent force.
The incantation was spent. So too was Ba'khran.
He held his posture a moment longer, his vision slowly restoring, weak and unfocused. How long had it been?
He rose with effort, his knees unsteady beneath him. His gaze fell to the table at the edge of the room, where the book lay open to the page that had guided his work. It was sticky with blood, just as he had left it.

He set a finger to the edge of the page and drew it back, opening the skin with a neat, practised cut. He smiled faintly, lifting it to his lips and tasting where the blood had gathered.

A knock came at the chamber door, soft but insistent. It drew his attention at once.

"Enter."

The door opened a fraction before the attendant slipped inside, careful not to cross too far beyond the threshold. His eyes did not rise.

"Eminence," he said, voice low. "Lord Saeroth bids you attend him at once."

He did not keep Saeroth waiting. Ba'khran gathered a cloak about him and passed from the chamber into the long arteries of the citadel, his steps measured, unhurried, the faint stain of his work hidden in the folds of dark wool. Torches burnt low along the walls, their light steady now, obedient once more. Servants and guards alike drew aside as he moved, closer to the centre of their order, the heart of purpose that would lead them into a new age. Those who attended Saeroth gave their quiet bows, gestures Ba'khran neither sought nor acknowledged beyond the slightest inclination of his head.

When at last he came before the lord, he paused only to compose himself, then inclined deeply, the gesture precise and controlled.
"My lord," he said, voice level, the faintest trace of warmth beneath it, "you sent for me."

Amon
Saeroth

 

[Saeroth]

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Objective: Dark Visions
Location: The Mountains of Beganar
Tags: Ba'khran | Amon

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Særoth transitioned into a large chamber higher up within the subterranean cave system that was the Fallen Sons' tribal holding. The Mountains of Beganar were remote enough to dissuade exploration by your casual wanderer, and shrouded in rumor of disappearances and malevolent beasts of darkness. In truth, the danger which befell those who decided to brave the unknowns of this region would most likely meet an ignoble end at the hands of the Dre Fæmora, who protected their lands with the utmost of prejudice and secrecy.

The Archon of the Fallen Sons awaited the arrival of two others, staring into the flames of a hearth half-naturally formed and half-carved within the rock of the far wall. The top of the hearth had a natural tunnel that fed up through the mountain and out, as a sort of vent - with other similar shafts that provided natural airflow, and thus constituting it a natural meeting room when required.

The first to arrive was a marauder chieftain, named Amon. Særoth knew him more by reputation as opposed to any personal relationship, for Amon and his warriors often drifted between the holdings of different tribes of the Dre Fæmora; though lately choosing the Fallen Sons as their 'hosts'. Normally, Særoth 'tolerated' his presence more than anything - for his men served to amplify the strength of his own tribal warriors in securing their borders, despite not pledging their loyalty to any Archon in particular. But perhaps things would change...

Særoth regarded the marauder with a cool expression, standing tall as he appraised the Fae before him. "Thank you for answering my summons so quickly." Særoth's tone was neutral, devoid of any real warmth though not uncivil. There was no need to explain away any further delay, as Ba'khran arrived shortly after him.

When at last he came before the lord, he paused only to compose himself, then inclined deeply, the gesture precise and controlled.
"My lord," he said, voice level, the faintest trace of warmth beneath it, "you sent for me."

The nature of Ba'khran and Særoth's relationship was altogether different. The former had always served as a loyal advisor to the latter, particularly when Særoth ascended to his role as Archon of the Fallen Sons after the passing of his father. Primogeniture was not always the nature of things amongst the Dre Fæmora, yet it was in this case for a variety of reasons; largely due to the support of the Shaman. So it was that Særoth wasted little time in consolidating his grip upon the tribe. As the two drew closer, Ba'khran set about guiding his chieftain into delving deeper in the mystic arts of their people. What resulted was a relationship of a mentor to a pupil; a pupil who had potential for greatness far and beyond that of his father.

Særoth greeted Ba'khran with a warmer, yet still dignified smile, along with a subtle nod of his head out of respect and gratitude. The Archon extended a hand to a clutch of chairs by the hearth, proceeding himself to the larger of the set at the right of the flames. As he did so, a human slave-girl approached, her head bowed low to the floor. Despite the collar around her neck and the knicks and bruising along her skin, she possessed a certain youth and vitality that was altogether appealing, and therefore worthy of serving the Archon directly.

"Bring water, and meat." His gaze did not leave the two other Fae-men, and the girl for her part merely bowed her head lower in acknowledgement before turning to fulfill her master's order. Meanwhile, Særoth decided to begin - shifting his gaze to Ba'khran first. "I had a vision last night whilst I slept." He leaned back in his chair and shifted, as though to prepare himself for the tale. He glanced over to Amon for a brief aside. "Ba'khran has been guiding me through the meditative arts of our people, to bring me closer to the latent power which lay just beyond our finger tips. At first I must admit... they were faded and obscure, as though I were opening my eyes for the first time after a great slumber. But last night..."

The girl returned with a pair of other slaves - another female and a male - carrying the requested refreshments. There were small tables, clearly of human make (likely spoils of various raids of the years) set before each of the chairs carrying the Dark Fae-men resting thence. A silver-plated plate was set before each of them, each possessed of a hank of lamb, along with side portions of nuts and fruits, and accompanied by an empty goblet. One of the slaves approached with a pitcher, pouring water within each vessel; starting with Særoth himself. The Archon continued on, as though the slaves were not even there. "What I saw was clear as day, as though I were on the peak of a mountain that was able to move and shift for the best view of each scene. I saw... what had to be the great city of old, in its majesty and profanity. I saw our forebears... toiling under the lash. And I saw... him."

They all likely knew what he meant by 'him'. The Dark Entity that they all, willingly or otherwise, served. "Or his hands, I should say. He beckoned me come, and I thus stared into his eyes." Særoth paused, taking a bit of fruit while he collected his thoughts. "As I sit here now... I feel a sense of renewed purpose. Rather than being lost... I feel... found."

He stared at both once again. "Fragments of thought are assembling in my mind with a clear view of how we can accomplish the purpose that has thus far eluded our people for millennia, yet I feel it prudent to speak with you both." He shifted abruptly to Amon. "Your place among us has always been temporary, and yet I do not know where you stand with respect to our people. Your presence has always been welcome, and your continued support and assistance would be appreciated. Yet I do not need mercenaries."

He paused, then added: "I need loyalty."

Only the perceptive would realize that Særoth had managed to press a question without ever one being asked.

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[Amon]

Saeroth, Ba'khran

Theme

Amon strode into the room in near-silence, his posture almost that of a stalking predator, though in this case, perhaps it was he who was the prey. It was always hard to tell with Særoth. Their relationship thus far had been mutually beneficial, but Amon had yet to fully devote himself to the Archon's cause. His tribe had always been wanderers, growing restless whenever their feet remained still for too long. It was that reality that kept a certain unease in the air between the two dark fae, and likely needed to be addressed sooner or later.

"It is my pleasure to answer your summons, Archon."

He offered a respectful bow, though only enough to not come across as some sort of sycophant. Amon's eyes then quickly shot a glance to Ba'khran, offering him a nod of acknowledgement as well. There was a deep respect Amon held for the priest, even if they didn't always see eye to eye. Taking a seat at the table, Amon began to help himself to food and drink as Særoth regaled them with his tale of visions and dreams, listening intently as the story began to unfold. His eyes would only move back to the Archon as he was addressed directly, his full attention now on the visionary.

"My people have always served our patron well, which you know. But my soldiers seek to quench their swords in blood. It is our way."

He leaned forward, pressing his hands together as he spoke.

"With all due respect, I must know what your ambitions will bring upon us. They will serve, but their needs must be met."

The implication was clear... give them an enemy, and their blades would sing whatever song the Archon deemed necessary.

 

[Ba'khran]

Ba'khran listened with an intensity of purpose, processing what his pupil and now master was telling him. A vision? A Visitation? A prophecy? All was possible when it came to Særoth. Ba'khran's lip quivered a little, energy coursing through him with renewed ferocity. He calmed himself, taking easy breaths to take control over his senses, as shocked as they now were at this news.

He inclined his head slowly, the movement deliberate, as though marking the weight of what had been spoken. "My lord… this is no small thing," he said, voice steady, threaded with a quiet, controlled warmth. "To see with such clarity, and to be answered in kind… few among our kind ever pass so far beyond the veil." His gaze did not waver from Særoth, and there was something almost reverent in it now, though held firmly in check. "You have stepped where others have only strained to glimpse."

He did his best to tread carefully. He would normally speak candidly but this time he halted himself. There were heightened stakes. Særoth was purporting to have spoken to Lo'vaioth himself, or at least the implication was strong. He did not doubt this but instead of finding majesty in the moment, he erred on the side of caution. He believe his acolyte, with all his heart but did not want to rush into a decision, for Lo'vaioth was a trickster and he longed to see Særoth spared from harm by this capricious god.

His expression softened again, reverence returning though tempered by care. "It may be as you believe, my lord," he said, bowing his head slightly. "That you were granted sight of Him, and that His hand has turned toward you." He let the weight of that linger a moment. "But such a grace is not lightly given, nor easily known for certain. There are… echoes that can wear a familiar shape, and lesser powers that would be taken for greater, if we are not vigilant." His gaze lifted once more, steady and devout. "To be seen is itself a mark of favour, yet we must be sure it is His favour, and not something that would have us believe so."

He drew a slow breath, mastering the last trace of unease. "Then we must meet this with discipline," he said, voice steady. "This is not an ending, my lord, but a beginning. What you have seen must be tested, understood, before it is acted upon." His gaze flicked briefly to Amon, then returned to Særoth. "If you have been marked, you will lead. We will answer with loyalty." He inclined his head. "Let me guide what comes next, that it is met with strength, not haste."

Saeroth Amon

 

[Saeroth]

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Objective: Dark Visions
Location: The Mountains of Becanar
Tags: Ba'khran | Amon

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Særoth weighed the words of the two other Fae in the room quietly, his eyes focusing on each in turn. Amon's response was within Særoth's expectations, for he always placed the needs and status of his warriors above clan or kin. Ba'khran's words, on the other hand, were a touch surprising - yet the Archon's expression remained neutral even still. He allowed a pause to hang between them all, and eventually broke it with a measured, deceptively soft tone. He turned to Ba'khran first. "Strength, not haste... heh." He placed a hand on his chin, then continued. "Our people have waited for thousands of years, and you caution against haste. Our strength has only just begun to grow amidst years of strife and toil. What would you have us wait for? Another Dominion of Man?"

Despite living on the fringes of society, the Dre Fæmora were not oblivious to the major events of the world. A power ascending to the west in the name of the 'Reich of Ostrien', reaching its greedy hands forth to unite the world of man under its reign. It had suffered setbacks over the previous years, but only a fool would believe that its ruler would remain undaunted and defied for long. A fractional tone of warmth thawed the chill within Særoth's words to the seer as he spoke again. "I am not wholly against your counsel, Teacher... but I do not advocate for haste. I contemplate action toward a singular purpose. Purposeful, deliberate action to grow the strength of our people..."

His gaze then shifted to Amon. "...and bring low the realm of man."

"As I looked into the eyes of the entity in my dream, I saw further visions. Images of... a dark race; not Fae, but not wholly human either. Their skin was pallid, and most of their number behaved as little more than animals - amidst those who spoke and moved akin to man, but with a lumbering and brutal purpose." Særoth could not recall these fragments at the outset of his retelling, yet he felt the shards coalescing into fragments of memory. He could hear the voice in his mind, just as his lips began to say it. "Dre Monkkol."

His eyes closed in memory for but a moment, then they opened again. "The vision comes in revealed fragments over time. I have a... pull to caves along the southern coast of Becenar. Perhaps we will learn more there." The Archon looked at Ba'khran again. "I know no other way to proceed without action, Ba'khran - but I will trust in your sage wisdom as we move forward. As to our purpose, allow me to speak plainly. I believe these visions are portents of the hope our people have had for aeons up to now. A world where we live in the light, and man is brought low in the darkness beneath us. There will be blood and fire, and if these visions prove true - deliverance."
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[Amon]

Saeroth, Ba'khran

Theme

Visions... destiny... loyalty...

It all sounded grand, but despite Amon's own devotion to their dark patron, he had his doubts. He had seen no such vision, and even Ba'khran seemed to harbor some small sense of wariness when listening to his pupil. Whatever the truth behind this vision, it would take more than the regaling of a dream to convince Amon to join his banners to the Archon's. He leaned forward, resting his chin on a closed fist for a moment.

"Haste does not mean swiftness. Man has never been as divided as they are now. My warriors have heard tales of greater fractures to the West. The largest beacons of humanity's unity are crumbling, piece by piece. It would be wise to strike before someone is able to reunite them."

A quick look shot over in Ba'khran's direction before shifting back to Saeroth.

"The Becenar warbands would not be missed by anyone. They are a blight to their neighbors. If you wish to search their lands, we can do so without drawing too much attention."

He took a long drink from his cup, mulling over the possible futures laid ahead of him and his people.

"I will follow you to the lands of the Becenar, as will my warriors. Should these... visions prove to provide us with the deliverance you claim, then we will pledge ourselves to your cause."

They had not had a banner to throw their weight behind for some time, instead relying on their own to continue their personal war against the forces of Man. But perhaps it would be time for a change...

Perhaps.

"Until then, I make no promises. My warriors will only follow my lead if they are as convinced as I. But they will give you the chance to find the answers you seek."

 

[Ba'khran]

Ba'khran remained silent for a time after Særoth had finished speaking.

The chamber seemed somehow diminished by the words that lingered within it, the dark pressed tighter against the old stone as though the mountain itself listened.

"At the least," he said at last, "we proceed with caution."

His voice emerged low and deliberate, each word measured and full of care.

"I do not fear action, my Archon. But I have lived long enough to know that promises of deliverance seldom arrive untouched by catastrophe."

His eyes rested upon Særoth only briefly before drifting elsewhere, towards thoughts already unfolding beyond the chamber walls.

"The southern coast of Becenar is old land. Older than the dominions of men. There are caverns beneath those cliffs abandoned even by our kind." He paused. "If something waits there, we will not approach it as pilgrims chasing visions."

A thin hand emerged from the folds of his robes.

"Scouts first. Wards prepared beforehand. Provisions gathered for a prolonged absence. Trusted blades only."

His gaze shifted then towards Amon.

"And Lord Amon speaks wisely. The kingdoms of man fracture more deeply with each passing season. Such disorder rarely spreads without cause."

His fingers curled slowly back into his palm.

"If the Becenar warbands truly draw so little notice, then perhaps it is no coincidence that whatever waits beneath those cliffs has remained undisturbed for so long."

"And before we descend beneath those stones, I will examine every surviving text that speaks of the Dre Monkkol."

The unfamiliar name sat unpleasantly upon his tongue.

When he spoke again, his voice had lowered further still.

"There is another matter."

He moved towards the edge of the chamber, fingertips brushing the cold surface of the wall beside him as though confirming something remained solid beneath his touch.

"In recent months I have undertaken certain workings in isolation. Fragments of rites far older than the lost kingdoms of the Fae." His brow tightened faintly. "I do not speak of them carelessly because I mistrust the results."

He turned slightly.

"Yet, the Web responds differently now."

The words lingered.

"Not weakened." A pause. "Thinned."

The candles trembled faintly in the silence that followed.

"There are places where the veil yields too easily. Places where thought and memory no longer remain properly confined to themselves." His gaze narrowed. "At first I believed it the consequence of war. The accumulated wounds left upon Gaia by centuries of violence."

Another pause.

"Now I am no longer certain."

His hands folded behind his back.

"If your visions are true, then something may already be moving through the Web itself. Not merely speaking to you, but reaching outward."

For the first time, unease touched his expression plainly.

"And that is precisely why understanding must precede reverence."

His eyes lingered briefly upon Amon once more.

"Caution is not cowardice. It is often the final barrier separating wisdom from ruin."

His gaze drifted towards the distant dark beyond the chamber.

"If something waits beneath those cliffs, I would know whether it is truly deliverance reaching for our people…"

His voice became little more than breath.

"…or something merely wearing its likeness."

Amon | Saeroth

 

[Saeroth]

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Objective: Dark Visions
Location: The Mountains of Becanar
Tags: Ba'khran | Amon

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It was exceedingly rare for Særoth to be at odds with his mentor, for the two Fae had bonded in ways akin to a father and son. Særoth's own father died before his time, a casualty of a meaningless war between the Fallen Sons and a rival tribe. Ba'khran had always given wise and measured counsel, and Særoth had always listened. Why did today feel any different?

As silence filled the chamber, Særoth asked himself that question. Was it impatience? Or some form of petulance, even though he was far from a child?

No, he thought not. Just as Ba'khran was known to offer sage and measured advice, Særoth was not known to be a hasty leader. Perhaps that was why the mystic's words of caution struck him so harshly. For Amon's part, he responded largely the way Særoth expected him to; yet even still, it left him wanting. The Archon could not escape the feeling that both of them suspected Særoth of madness, or at the least... indulgence. However unjustified the notion was, the question remained; how did he overcome this?

It was not unheard of within the tribes of the Dre Fæmora for an Archon to punish discord and challenge with brutality, yet such actions had their own unique repercussions - none of which productive. Besides, these were not ordinary Fae who sat before him. Ba'khran, as mentioned previously, was likely one of the only within the tribe who could privately challenge Særoth and yet it be genuinely considered counsel. Amon was not technically a member of the Tribe - a warlord of his own merit, and entitled to autonomy and respect.

Even still, with the respect Særoth afforded them both, this was a defining moment for them all, for he could not simply leave their words unanswered. Many an Archon had been undone for lacking strength as much as overusing it. All of this ran through Særoth's mind, while he visibly remained undaunted and resolute. "We shall go together then." Særoth said, looking at Amon. "Not in great numbers, but with strength enough nonetheless. I do not want to draw attention to our presence, nor to whatever secrets lie within the caves of old."

His gaze shifted and rested again on Ba'khran. "We will approach the way I lead us to. Nothing more, and nothing less." His tone was cold and firm, brokering no debate. Yet it thawed slightly as he continued: "Consult your texts... they may prove useful. Your wisdom shall be invaluable to me, as it always has been. But I will not delay longer than it will take to muster and prepare for the journey ahead, whether you are among our number or not."

The Archon stood, punctuating his words evermore. "I will not ask those know nothing of what I've seen to go in my stead. I will test the value of this vision myself, and with you both as my witnesses; be it good or ill."
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