Rude Awakening
Rethiar Lorrollien was having a particularly unpleasant day. He was out in the middle of nowhere, days away from anything familiar with only a group of incompetent soldiers to keep him company. While in such a dismal mood, nearly everything that surrounded him managed to get on his nerves. The cushion of his seat was far from acceptable. The carriage’s driver was obviously not skilled enough to avoid a single bump in their path. The guards who rode alongside him talked in a painfully improper fashion. The weather was just getting more atrocious as the hours passed. When he caught a reflection of himself in the cracked windows, he was treated to a glimpse of the gray hairs beginning to form on his head. To top things off, his favorite pen had broken while they were riding over a particularly rough patch of what supposedly was a road. He cursed at the splintered nib; not because it had been a personal gift from General Haramath to celebrate a promotion, but since it could have easily fetched at least 400 Corona from the market.
It seemed to him that there was very little that could happen to make this expedition any more anguishing than it already was. In his mind, the only thing that could have gotten worse was if the carriage were to break, forcing him to walk all the way back. He quickly dismissed the thought; one of the guards would have to relinquish their steed to someone with his authority. Riding on an animal for such a distance would still be vastly less preferable.
As the miserable trip continued, he found himself lacking the motivation to even look out the window. He figured that the report he was compiling was already complete; there was nothing of importance to write ever since he reached the beginning of the wastelands and marked its boundary. From there, the desolate landscape continued for as far as the eye could see.
His orders had specifically instructed him to refrain from crossing the boundary at any point, but he found difficulty in imagining why anyone would want to. All that he could see were barren trees and the slightest hint of snow to the far north. Besides the wind passing through decaying branches, there appeared to be no movement at all. The area was simply dreary and disgusting; it was definitely not a place where a refined noble should ever step foot.
He resumed the cycle of thought that his mind had been looping through ever since the carriage left Kellith. When he was not feeling depressed over his current circumstance, he was brooding over the reasons why he was being subjected to this in the first place. Of course, he already knew the immediate answer. Being one of the court’s highest ranking magistri, he was not lacking in either wit or common sense. The reasons behind the Empress’s choice still confused him no matter how many times he ran the scenario through his head.
It was the day after his birthday when he received an official envelope addressed from the Empress herself. Naturally, he had been delighted to gain such personal attention and was almost positive that the contents were some form of recognition for his hard work in the court. He wasted no time in opening it as he was preparing his acceptance speech to give to the courier. Upon inspecting the letter, his face immediately lost its confident grin and his heart plummeted.
Magister Lorrollien,
It is our duty as the rightful leaders of Vilratha to tame all of the wild expanses that our sacred sun touches. Though I have no intention of bringing civilization to the northern wastelands for quite some time, it disturbs me to hear that small groups of men are moving within eyesight of the border. I am sure that you have heard the tall tales of shaman tribes living deep in the wastelands. I doubt that any living thing could possibly thrive there, but I will not tolerate anyone who threatens my land or my people.
I require more detailed information of these sightings as well as a report on the current state of the border. In order to be sure that we are not caught off-guard, we must act quickly with preventative force if necessary. It is most likely that these villagers are simply spotting wild animals in the night or roaming groups of savages traveling to their next meal. Regardless, I need someone I can trust to retrieve the answers that I seek.
House Lorrollien has always been distinguished by their loyal service to the Emperor in times of hardship. Your father was a personal confidant to mine, and you have never failed to exceed my expectations of your work. I know that you can look into this matter for me with discretion and efficiency. Provisions and transportation have already been arranged and will be awaiting you at the Rising Gate tomorrow. The guards who will be accompanying you have been informed that this is a reconnaissance exercise only. You are not to tread into the wastelands unless absolutely necessary. I wish you a safe journey, and may the sacred sun light your way.
-Empress Raz’thilda Dawnlance
The letter had been clearly signed by the Empress’s hand and stamped with her personal seal, but Rethiar could not help but feel like it was a sick joke. There were several other magistri capable of such a menial task, and almost all of them were much less needed in the court. What the Empress said about House Lorrollien was certainly true; the family had produced a lineage of bright magistri that stretched as far back as the royal archives could reach. Although the archives said nothing of the event, it was commonly believed that Voran Dawnlance himself granted the founder of House Lorrollien a blessed flask of water to reward his loyalty and service. This trinket was passed down as a valuable heirloom for generations until it was finally forced into Rethiar’s possession.
Absent-mindedly stroking the indentations on the crystal flask, he thought about all the burdens that came with it. It weighed heavily on his hand and heart; he had been instructed at an early age to keep it as a symbol of nobility and honor. To carry the Lorrollien flask was to be forced into a life of endless work and little reward. It represented everything that he hated, but at times he felt inexplicably drawn to it. The gleaming water inside would sometimes catch his eye and make his heart race, but he quickly dismissed it as a delusion brought on by long days and sleepless nights.
When the carriage came to a creaking halt, he drearily lifted his head to look outside. After pitying himself so intensely, he must have let time slip by unnoticed. The sparse trees were now nonexistent and only small tufts of grass remained. Rethiar went to examine his map only to fail at locating anything remotely familiar. Thoroughly annoyed, he knocked on the front of the carriage to get the attention of the driver. His inept guard took plenty of time before hopping down and opening the door.
“Where exactly are we?” Rethiar demanded.
The simple man shrugged. “You were dozing off when the guards saw a few men near the border. They figured that you were up here to look into that sort of thing, so they took off to intercept them.” Tapping on the side of the carriage, he added, “I followed as fast as I could, but this large heap of junk slows us down a bit.”
Rethiar’s face contorted as his patience began to falter. “The Empress forbade us from crossing the boundary! Are you trying to get us exiled for directly disobeying her? Those simpletons acted rashly and have endangered our mission! Where are they now?”
In a mockingly upbeat tone, the soldier responded, “Well, we didn’t want to wake you up, you must have been cozy in there with your fancy robe on all of those pillows.”
Rethiar stood up within the carriage and leaned over to grab him by the front of his chainmail vest. Looking the soldier in the eye, he hoped to intimidate the man so that he snapped to his senses and brought them back to safe territory. His eyes did not linger for long as he tilted his head to survey his surroundings. Not only was there a lack of trees, but it seemed that the landscape was devoid of life entirely. The air was stale and hung heavy around them without any semblance of a breeze. The sky above was a dismal shade of gray that did not even hint at a sun existing behind it. Looking back at the soldier, Rethiar’s voice dropped to a barely audible whisper.
“You are going to get on that carriage, turn it around, and drive those horses as fast as they will move back towards the border. I am finishing my report and telling the Empress that my escort abandoned their post. Is that understood?”
Surprised by his sudden change in tone, the soldier silently nodded. Before he could sit down and start mulling over his latest setback, Rethiar heard a loud gasp from outside. Getting up to check on the most recent problem, he stuck his head out of the carriage. His guard swiveled around and looked down at the burning red tip of the spear that was now impaled through his chest. Without a word, he fell to the ground. Rethiar never thought to ask for his name.
Panicking, he darted around the carriage trying to find where he had dropped his flask. He knew that the action would slow him down, but he could not fathom fleeing without it. His heart beat so loudly that it drowned out the noise of hurried speech and footsteps approaching. When his fingers finally moved across the etched surface of the flask, he snatched it up.
The rapid thumping in his chest stopped once he heard a deep-pitched grunt behind him. Rethiar turned around and was met with an enormous man standing in front of the doorway. His dark skin was covered with boiled leather, deep scars, and burn marks. In his gnarled hands was an equally enormous club that smoldered at the tip with a white-hot flame. Swinging the weapon over his head, the giant brought it down and smashed through the roof of the carriage. It was then that Rethiar realized how wrong he was when he thought that this trip could not get any worse.
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Rethiar woke up and jolted into a sitting position. He was immediately met with an excruciating pain that brought him down to him back down. Every inch of his body felt like it was burning. Barely able to open his eyes, he could only deduce that he was in a cave near a crudely made campfire. He screamed in agony; he had never been subjected to a sensation like this in his entire life.
As he writhed on the cold floor, a stern voice called from the mouth of the cave in an unknown language. Her words were unlike any that he had ever heard; they were not coarse like Ulthari and they certainly did not belong to the more refined Unity spoken throughout the Empire. Although they stirred a vague feeling of familiarity, he could not decipher them. He continued screaming until she raised her voice with an accent rougher than any of the Ultharan ambassadors.
“Silence, kirida. Any more noise might bring beasts. Or worse.”
Rethiar slowly angled his head towards his assailant. He reflexively tried to recoil from the massive woman who filled his blurry vision, but his limbs refused to budge. She was roughly clothed with various animal furs, but clearly not enough to fully protect her from the elements. Tribal tattoos and ragged scars covered most her muscular torso. Rethiar only caught a glimpse of her braided gray hair and frigid, steely eyes before his neck gave in and returned his vision to the floor.
“I know little of your tongue,” she stated. “My name is Primalist Gorn. Welcome to the wastelands, runt.”
As his consciousness faded once again, Rethiar could only feel disappointed that he had not managed to squeeze in a witty retort.
Reflections – Lost Places
“There will always be places where the barrier between the real and the unreal wears thin, where the world pulls back the curtain to reveal itself. Mankind abandoned these places long ago, and yet they yearn to return somewhere they have never been. I cannot say for sure why we left, but if you wander for long enough you will eventually find them. No matter how many laws and cities we make, we will always feel their pull in the corners of our souls.”