CONSULT THE ARCHIVE

Haemon, third in the cycle and eleventh son of the table under Dhalmyn’s seat, which was neither a seat nor a place nor a person nor anything in between (it was merely a room), was unbelievably bored. He sat off to the side, stewing in his own impatience as he waited for someone to do something different. The four other children of Dhalmyn that occupied the room with him were all watching the table idly, not giving much thought to the happenings of the people below. “I find myself jealous of Abicior.” All four heads turned to him, breaking the stasis. Vanin, First Son, did not grin back, and instead met Haemon’s expression with a familiar scowl.  “Don’t be ridiculous.” Vanin’s scowl deepened. Haemon, who had been stretched out on an upholstered chaise in his little corner of the room, now sat up and rolled his shoulders back. He locked eyes with Vanin. “Im doing it.” Haemon watched as confusion began to settle among those gathered around the table. Assessing whether or not he was being serious. They didn’t seem to reach a verdict. He was. Haemon began to glow. The man on the moon was no man at all. He was the mist that clung to the squishy, porous surface of the marble sized globe. He was also the squishy, porous surface. And the rest of the moon too. He was rather proud of his work, and he was particularly satisfied with his ingenuity in regards to the larger, luminescent disc that hung suspended behind the moon itself. It hung slightly back from the moon, though it stayed connected through faint, wispy tendrils. The tendrils were likely trivial, but after previous breaches, Haemon didn't dare risk disobeying a term laid out by the other nine.               The Nine, Haemon corrected, chiding himself. It had been a long, long time since he was of their order. Bah. He reconsidered the concept. He was still incredibly frustrated with the others. His boredom was so excruciating that suicide had become a daily thought. That, of course, would be ridiculous. He sighed, or at least he did whatever passed as a sigh for a god whose mind had been injected into an ever changing moon. He continued to wonder what exactly he could do to get back at his old friends. It was a small survey group, consisting of a dozen guards, a pair of guard captains, and the war-master, all of house Pilthan. It had been approximately two hours now since Hintrin had heard the great impact that had shaken the plains just south of the keep, and It wasn't long before he was on horseback with his party and orders from Lord Pilthan, on their way to the site of whatever caused the noise. It was there where he sat now, atop his horse, taking in what lay before him feeling even more puzzled than when he had heard the great thud.  A large egg-like object sat about twenty feet from him. The ground around it was charred, and large fissures had erupted into a web of cracked terrain, originating from where the foreign object now sat. The thing was unlike anything Hintrin had ever seen. It seemed to be made of metal, though it didn't appear to have been damaged much upon impact. The bottom of it had a slight dent, but that was all. The object was all white, save for the dirt and mud which now smeared its glossy surface. The entire site radiated an energy of uncertainty, and Hintrin could tell by the subtle shuffling of his men that they too, felt uneasy. “Quite the sight, sir,” one ventured. It was him who originally reported the tremor. Hintrin snorted as he dismounted his horse. “Who else knows of it?” “I’m unsure of who Lord Pilthan told, though his scribe was in the room when I reported it. I would not be surprised to learn that the entire keep is aware that something is up. The sound was hard to ignore.” Hintrin nodded, gaze still locked on the thing. He hoped to himself that there were no other houses aware of the disturbance. Whatever this was, it could be valuable, and Hintrin dared not risk it falling into the hands of a rival lord.  “I want the thing secure in the keep by nightfall.” The guards rushed to obey his command, half of them returning to the keep to devise a way to bring the object back, and the other staying with Hintrin to keep him protected, a captain for each group.  Hintrin took a step, crouched down and peered at one of the fissures. A glimmer of green had caught his eye and he wanted a closer look. Upon further inspection, the dirt of the fissure seemed to conceal a sheen of green creeping beneath the soil. He reached a hand down, the tips of his fingers breached the dirt. A searing pain assaulted the nerves of his fingers and shot up his arm. The man leaped back, howling in agony. The members of the guard perked up, confusion blanketing their startled expressions. Hintrin looked down at his arm and saw that it was completely drained of color, as white as paper. Gasping, fighting the near unbearable pain throbbing through his arm, he whipped his head around to his guards. They were all still, their faces ridden with disbelief. “Blessed Vhthenh,” One breathed.  The guards watched as the rest of Hintrin slowly drained of color, unsure of what to do. None of them had seen anything like what was unfolding in front of them. And so they did nothing but watch as Hintrin became unrecognizable, like an old corpse standing in front of them, howling in pain. With a final eerie rattle escaping his throat, Hintrin collapsed, and as his head hit the blackened dirt it exploded into a cloud of murky white liquid, splattering the faces of the remaining soldiers who stayed ever so still, eyes and mouths gaping, unable to process what they had seen.

Note - This is the first chapter of an unfinished, scrapped short story of mine. Wallyn knew no matter which pair of eyes he met, they would be staring back at him with nothing but vitriol, if not a little concern. For now, their anger was borne of sources unrelated to him, though nothing would stop the flood of their contempt once they saw the extent of his incompetence. He went for his pipe, looking to ease his nerves, but upon reaching into the pocket just below his jerkin, he found nothing save for the little tobacco pouch. Blast. He must have forgotten the bloody thing back at camp. He let out a long, suffering sigh, and finally looked up. He had to squint, the brilliant shining sun blinding him temporarily. It had risen some two hours ago, casting out the iridescent hues that came with the eleventh moon. Once his eyes had adjusted to the brightness, he kept his gaze fixed on the enemy line the best he could manage, being towards the rear of the army. Murmurs of yesterday’s scout reports estimating up to thirty thousand enemy troops had frightened Wallyn, and looking at the unimaginable number now brought to reality across the staging ground, he knew his fear had been well founded. Though it didn't do much to quell his terror, Wallyn tried to remind himself that sheer manpower was the southerners only advantage. The Northerners had the metaphorical high ground in virtually every other aspect. One of these such advantages was that the staging ground sat towards the base of an incredibly wide yet moderate slope, framed on each side by sheer, towering cliffs that ran from one side of Ahomith to the other. Having been enlisted for only a couple of moons now, Wallyn had already heard several people joking that the moons had created Ahomith this way in order to give the Northerners such an advantage, as if North and South had always been so wrought with strife. Strife that, in moments, was to boil over into a grand collision at the scale of which Ahomith had never seen. Wallyn felt as though he was trapped in the center of a deadly whirlwind. The whirlwind had been growing for many months, larger in scale and louder in bellows. Despite this, Wallyn had not heard it, for he had refused to give the archives pause until the very moment the storm had sucked him up. It really wouldn't be long now until that terrible horn blew. Wallyn had heard it before. All those drills, the blaring over and over, the charge that preceded it, it would be nothing like today. Today, Wallyn would hear the horn for the first time. It would be dreadfully true, the reality tangible. He was utterly terrified. Apprehension oozed from the soldiers around him. Wallyn knew much of the anxiety he sensed from others stemmed from the knowledge that they were to experience the first large-scale battle in Ahomith’s history. It was a daunting thought. What were they to expect? Yes, the rehearsals were informative and Wallyn found them to be helpful, but how was anyone to know whether they could be applied to a real conflict, fueled mainly by hatred? A small, remaining portion of the unease that gathered around him was directed at Wallyn himself, or at least those like him. Fresh recruits. Disdain for the younger soldiers was common in the Northern Ahomithian military, and Wallyn had been facing prejudice for it ever since he was drafted. What if he had come of his own will? Would they so readily ostracize someone who simply wanted to help? Wallyn was almost sure of it. The young Wrudin actually gulped. He reddened after, too. It was a little embarrassing. He could feel his panic rising and rising. He shut his eyes, opened them, and shut them tight again. He kept them that way, as if banishing the sight of the battle would make it cease to exist. Maybe, if he opened his eyes he would find himself back in that dusty old office, content as can be. Brrruuuuuuummmmmmmmmmm. The war horn. Wallyn’s stomach plummeted. His eyes jolted open, but any chance of gathering his scattered, panicked thoughts was ripped away with the flood of soldiers rushing forward from all around him. Wallyn forced himself to stagger forward alongside the mob, reminding himself that ideally, his squad formation would put him and those around him at the least vulnerable point in the arrangement. For the first portion of the battle, this remained the case, though the formation did not remove Wallyn’s ability to see the copious amounts of bloodshed that threatened to break the rigid guard at the borders of his squad. The group was formed in such a way that the most experienced soldiers were on the outside, while each layer of the formation grew less experienced as you neared the center. It almost reminded Wallyn of the trunk of a tree, but with the youngest rings towards the center instead of at the edges. Despite the careful formation it was not long before Wallyn was watching, horrified, as trained fighter after trained fighter was hacked down, the layers of Wallyn’s shell cracking one at a time. If someone were to look at the battle from above, Wallyn was sure it would look similar to the inner workings of a clock, gears of people spinning about, clashing in clangs of death where teeth met teeth. Years of preparation for war without any actual indication of it (long before the civil conflict ever began) allowed the two forces of Ahomithians to fight so similarly whilst being on two opposite sides. The two sides knew each other well, and it turned the entire clash into an elaborate ensemble dance. Wallyn focused on moving along steadily with his squadron, following the dance as it whirled around the staging grounds. It was incredibly difficult to keep his eyes off the carnage that beat against his protection. He’d never seen any violence of the sort; spears through necks, an eye gouged on the spike of a shield, helmets caved in where hammers had deemed the protective value of the armour irrelevant. The Northerners were losing. Soon Wallyn would lose too. The boy’s throat was dry, and nothing but a hoarse croak escaped his mouth as a crossbow bolt flew past his head, barely grazing his ear. He ducked below the cover of his squadmates, but a soldier behind him hoisted him up by the scruff of his undershirt almost immediately. Wallyn was grateful. He couldn’t imagine the shame that would have accompanied making himself look like even more of a coward. The battle raged on, and the dance continued as the circle grew smaller. Soon, Wallyn would have to put what little training he had to use. A mere 5 layers of people stood between Wallyn and the violence. He kept having to dodge stray bits of steel. A thrown javelin skewered the neck of a man barely three feet from him, and Wallyn let out a dry, pathetic moan as he saw the massive enemy squadron descending upon them as the man hit the dirt. The impending squadron of Southerners were disregarding the classic gear formation of warfare as they charged head on at Wallyn’s people. He tried to shout again, but his parched throat rendered any attempt to alert his squadmates completely wasted. They were all sure to be brutally slaughtered. The descending squadron outnumbered them tenfold. Wallyn was going to die. He was fighting a war he didn’t fully understand, a war he wanted no part of, and a war of which he was on the losing side by what seemed like an impossible amount. There was nothing he could do to stop the slaughter, to turn the tide of the battle and bring it back to the North. He was a bookkeeper, the most dedicated to his profession out of anyone else back home, and he was going to die with a cheap spear in his hand, stained with his sweat, tears, and blood. Wallyn was a coward. Wallyn was a coward and yet he still stood there, waiting for death to greet him. The boy spun, shoved past one of his own, and began a wild dash to the outskirts of the fray. He wasn’t that far from the edge, his squadron had moved forward and had then made its way towards the rightmost corner of the battle, curving back towards the cliffs. It was for these that he dashed now, eyes frantically scanning them for lookouts who may betray his crime to superiors. The only watch he saw was farther back along the wall, towards the split of the cliffs that held the slope down which the Northerners had advanced. As Wallyn ran, he dodged little skirmish after skirmish, groups of five or six fighting those of similar numbers. As many of the squadrons were whittled down, more abandoned the classic gear formation, opting for pure chaos instead. The green that stretched from where the battle dwindled to far past Wallyn’s line of sight was bare, and anyone with half decent vision would see Wallyn if he attempted to flee that way. He swept his gaze across the carnage, looking for some other way out. Making for one of the wooded areas that bordered the fight would not do, it was unlikely he would make it to one before being slaughtered. He cursed to himself, then brought his gaze back towards the cliffs. It was then that a rather deranged idea began to form in Wallyn’s head. If he could locate some sort of pocket that would conceal him while he climbed up the cliff... Moons, Wallyn! Are you crazy? But did he have a better alternative? The thought of scaling those cliffs with no support whatsoever was utterly petrifying, but dying a quick death from impact petrified Wallyn far less than the idea of stumbling upon a Southerner who had joined the military for the wrong reasons. He did not have to think long before he made for the cliffs. Wallyn managed to slip away as the battle grew thin towards the edges, everyone around him preoccupied with keeping themselves alive. He had rounded a slight corner in the natural wall, so it was unlikely he was in the sight of anyone close to the cliffs. He walked alongside them, hand trailing the rough rock, looking for his best route up. After a few minutes or so, he found it. It was a narrow opening, perhaps the length of his arm and a half. It ran about forty Ikklyts into the rock and grew narrower from the opening. Towards the back of the Crevice, he suspected he heard some sort of animal rustling around, concealed by the shadows. Wallyn hastily began his climb before he could find out what the rustling belonged to, leaving caution to the dirt. After some shuffling, his back scraping the rightmost side of the wall, he had made it about three paces up. He dared a glance below, hoping whatever was down there didn’t have the ability to scale walls. He saw nothing but shadow. After quite a bit more shuffling up the rock, back growing numb from constant friction against the stone, he looked back down again, and found he was an entire one hundred and twenty Ikklyts from the ground. The statue of Larrielle The Founder back home could have separated him from the ground, and then some. Upon surveying the battle once again, now from a much more favourable vantage point, he found three things of note. One, that the battle was a far less hopeful cause for the Northerners than he had originally thought. Though their numbers thinned towards the edges of the fray, the Northerners were holding strong, and the Southerners were visibly struggling to even come near the slope, much less advance further up and past the Northern border. More and more Southerners fell as they threw themselves at the firm Northern line. They were wasting troops to an egregious extent. It was as if they wanted their numbers decimated. So this is what real conflict looks like, Wallyn thought to himself. When you take out the routine, formation, and sense of safety that comes with training and replace it with thoughtless bloodthirst fuelled by senseless war propaganda. Young Wrudin men were so easily influenced that instilling passion for the cause in most of them was no difficult task. The second thing Wallyn noticed was that as the battle focused more on the slope and the cliffs surrounding it, the fighting began to fan out along the base of the cliffs, placing quite a few little skirmishes uncomfortably close to Wallyn. One of these skirmishes, unbeknownst to the participants, was a mere six or so Ikklyts from the third thing Wallyn saw of note, which was by far the most interesting to him. A young fox. Perhaps only a few months young. Wallyn assumed it was the source of the rustling earlier. The little thing was yapping its head off at the soldiers, though the clashing of steel drowned it out. One of the soldiers spotted the fox and grinned. Its opponent, stupidly wondering what the other was looking at, turned back and immediately had the other's blade sheathed in his own flesh. The man dropped, and his killer, a Northern man, began advancing towards the fox, a grin on his face that looked not quite human. Wallyn cursed under his breath and threw his head back, eyes shut, clenching his jaw. He hated caring so much. TGOA001