Gabrielen Blackrain

Howlington, the Wolfswood, Northern Jorden

GABRIELEN HAD A BAD FEELING about this place. Deep within his gut, something about the desolate village of Howlington seemed ominous, as if something sinister made this place its home. He knew of the stories of the place, many of which were suited for frightening tales told around a campfire beneath the creeping black of a night sky. Most of them he considered nothing more than simple folklore and myth, but there were always some nuggets of truth to those tales.

Aryanne and Seigfreid had been gone for nearly an hour, and that was quickly beginning to feel entirely too long to search this godforsaken place. Gabrielen had been tending to the horses just on the outskirts of the town in their absence, but they only needed so much attention. He fed them, brushed their manes, and even them a gentle scratch behind their ears. He still had yet to think of a name for his own horse. Valyn called his Zen, Aryanne called her horse Ella, and Seigfreid just called his horse Horse. Each of their names had some sort of meaning behind them, even Whitelocke's, in some sort of twisted, humorous way he supposed. He had a few ideas spring up here and there, but they were either dismissed or forgotten. That's how Gabrielen knew they weren't good names. A good name sticks with you.

Valyn was still chattering when Gabrielen tended to him after the horses. The young elvor seemed to be in a coma, though Gabrielen didn't know what sort of comas caused your teeth to chatter endlessly or turned your sweat to frost. Then again, he was an entirely different species, and Gabrielen wasn't too familiar with their anatomy. Even if I am half of what you are.

He remembered when Tyren told him he was of elven heritage. In some strange way, he supposed he should have known. He was always different from the other boys. The boys he grew up with in his village had all become men, old men at that, and he hadn't aged a day past his adolescence it seemed. He could hardly remember his youth, as if it was a play he had seen long ago, and all he could remember where the pivotal scenes. What he did remember was scarce. He could hardly picture his mother and had no recollection of the color of her hair or the shape of her eyes. He was so young when she left, and he was never given a reason to why she did. He did, however, remember her scent. She always smelled of cinnamon, that much he remembered, that much he had of his mother. It was no different from his father. Gabrielen never knew the man, nor whatever happened to him. Gabrielen was sure he was long dead by now. His life was like a book, and though he felt himself flipping through more and more pages, he could scarcely remember what it was he had read up to this point. All he could remember of his early years was the ocean, cold and icy blue, lapping up against the shores with gentle content.

He was sure that he lived near the coast for some time of his life when he was young, though his youth was something short of just fifty years before. That was before he went to the mountains with his grandfather, far away from the rest of the world, a place only they knew about. How long has it been since I've last seen him? Will he welcome me with open arms, or turn his back to me? He turned his gaze back to Valyn, shivering beneath his blankets and seeping frost unto the earth beneath him. Gabrielen only hoped his grandfather had the answers he had promised.

A shout tore through the hollow silence and echoed throughout the grey skies above until it was a bore only the faintest resemblance of what it had just been moments ago. Aryanne, Gabrielen realized with worry. There was no mistaking it was her. Gabrielen felt his nerves tingle and his breath hasten. She was in trouble, he had to do something. He started off for the village when he stopped suddenly in his tracks. The horses, shit. He turned around and quickly grabbed each of their reigns with the intent to hook them to a tree branch, though Horse was stubborn and insisted on not being tethered to something so stalwart. Seigfreid is certainly this horse's master, no mistaking it.

"Dammit Horse, I don't have time for this," Gabrielen said through gritted teeth. Horse finally allowed Gabrielen to seize his reigns, though did so begrudgingly, and assumed a sour mood. Gabrielen was sure he'd his move would improve when he'd return to unhook him.

"Stay here," Gabrielen told them as he turned around to finally race into the village. He had not gotten more than ten paces when he stopped again in his tracks. Valyn, shit! Gabrielen turned around and headed back yet again. Valyn wasn't as near as difficult to handle as Horse had been. Gabrielen hoisted the elf up and gracelessly carried him to the nearby carcass of what had once been someone's home however many years ago. Certain the elvor was safe, Gabrielen made his way to where he had heard Aryanne shout just moments ago.

*****

Gabrielen was sure he was, if not at least close to, where he heard the shout appear from. He was in the center of the village, though it resembled more of a circle than a square. Ahead of him was a large and decrepit manor, taller than any other building and center of the town at about 4 stories high. Its architecture wasn't anything dazzling. It was simply a large rectangular construct with a sloped roof, terrace, and a modest but crumbling spire adjacent to a terrace, though Gabrielen did feel as though the spire added an air of mysticism to the otherwise mundane ruin. It was clearly a lord's home, Gabrielen had stolen enough from similar homes to recognize the sort. It was still in surprisingly decent shape, though that was in comparison to the other rotted, broken and otherwise derelict structures. It was a far cry from what it once might have been, but it seemed to still have some signs of stewardship. The hedges surrounding the terrace were trimmed and the paint on the walls seemed fresh. A heavy feeling gripped Gabrielen by the throat as he came to a disturbing realization. We're not alone here.

He took slow and ginger steps towards the manor, light-footed as ever as if the mere snapping of a twig beneath his heel would awaken some horrific beast lying dormant within the village. As he drew closer he something lying on just in front of the manor. Upon closer inspection, he realized that something was someone, and as he came to be only a few feet away, he realized that someone was Seigfreid Whitelocke.

"Seigfreid?" Gabrielen called out, his voice just shy of being a whisper. He took only a single step towards the ranger before he noticed the arrow, coated in red and sprouting out the back of the ranger's neck.

"Gods be good..." Gabrielen exclaimed as he knelt next to Seigfreid's corpse. I need to find Aryanne before it's too late, for either of them.

A sudden noise came from the house, like the wind slamming a door shut. Gabrielen jumped to his feet, and instinctively reached for the sword at his hip. There was no one around that he could see, but still, having his sword hilt in his hand made him feel safe, like a child gripping the edges of a blanket during a dark and thunderous night. He looked to the manor and saw that the front door was just slightly ajar, as if someone was in a hurry and had no time to ensure the door was closed completely. With an iron grip around his hilt and concentrated breath, Gabrielen ascended the steps that led to the residence of evil, unsure of awaited inside.

He gave the door a gentle push, and sent it brushing across the floor as it creaked on its hinges. The inside of the manor was black as pitch, save for the dim glow of grey light that poured in through the open doorway. Gabrielen cursed, and took a lantern from his hip and brought it to life with a match. It was a rare occasion he went anywhere without some sort of lantern, candle or even flint. The dark had never been kind to him, and concealed all sorts of hidden evils, he had come to learn.

The glow of his lantern illuminated the manor, and the warm familiar colors of candlelight made the walls come alive, like a sleeping babe awakening from a gentle slumber. The light painted a different picture of the manor than the one Gabrielen expected. The place was immaculately clean, and well preserved. Gabrielen expected rotted floorboards and corners home to spiders and their webs, the common signs of a place long abandoned, but instead found what simply seemed to be a home. Still just as confused, but perhaps just a little less frightened, Gabrielen pressed on, his lantern in front of him and his other hand still gripped around his hilt like it were cast and made of iron.

As more of the manor came into view, Gabrielen was affirmed that his suspicions of this manor having once belonged to a lord were correct. Regal chairs, furniture and family portraits lined the walls and decorated the entry of what Gabrielen assumed was the living room. The wallpaper was well preserved and intact, instead of peeling and withering away. There was not a stain he could see, nor any sign of decay for that matter. On the contrary, there were healthy potted plants and ferns scattered around decoratively. The manor seemed to be frozen in time, as if it lived in a blissful ignorance free of the decrepitude and decay that surrounded it. There were numerous doors and hallways that led further into the bowels of the manor, but Gabrielen could hear murmurings and muffled conversation from somewhere upstairs.

Holding his lantern up, Gabrielen could see a staircase that curved and wrapped around the living room. It was split into two separate staircases and connected by a walkway, leaving a space in the middle that for a long hallway that stretched into the dark. Gabrielen chose the right-sided staircase, and made his way up the steps, stepping lightly to prevent any unwanted creaks. The voices were coming from the right, and grew louder and Gabrielen came closer to the top of the stairs. They must be in a room right around the corner.

As he came to the top of the staircase, Gabrielen dimmed his lantern so that the light would not give him away. The voices were certainly in the next room, and Gabrielen could hear them clearly now, though every other word seemed to be difficult to make out. The door that led to the room the voices came from was slightly ajar, and Gabrielen saw two figures, conversing in tones just above whispers. One voice was old and gravely, like a city road, and the other one was youthful. Gabrielen slowed his breathing, and listened intently.

"There may be more, I don't trust her. Gods be damned, I don't even know what she is." The voice rose and fell in pitch, the voice of a boy, or at least a boy in the midst of becoming a man.

"Mind your tongue, Sam! I told you I don't like when you take the Gods names in vain," the old gravelly voice chided. "I put an arrow in one, and I'll put arrows in the others, should they emerge from the bushes. That doesn't concern me, bandits and looters I know, them I can handle. What she is, where she came from, that's what frightens me."

They're talking about Aryanne, Gabrielen realized. He looked around at what he could make out of the room through the crack in the door as they continued talking. It appeared to be some sort of bedroom, probably the boys. He couldn't see Aryanne anywhere. He had to find her, and soon, preferably while these two were still talking. He left them to their conversation, picking up the odd word here and there, but focused rather on his search. The hallway was wide and lined with doors, any one of which could lead to anything. Gabrielen kept his breath and steps as quiet as possible, and did his best to keep his wits about him.

He came to one door that was just a few rooms over from where the two men were, still in the midst of quiet and concerned conversation. He gave the door handle a gentle twist and peered through what space he gave himself to see. There was a bath, chamber pot, towels, mirror, basin and even a powder station. Seems we have a lady in our midst besides our missing elva.

Gabrielen closed the door silently and continued his search. He came to another room ready to uncover its mysteries when he heard another conversation from another room from across the hall, this one soft and quiet, like women gossiping. One voice was unfamiliar, but the other voice he knew, and knew well. Aryanne...

Gabrielen went to the room, less quiet than he had been and opened the door. Aryanne was in a chair, bound and tied up, a cloth gag hanging around her neck and a curious look on her face. On a bed next to her was a girl, sitting crossed legged and smiling. They both looked in his direction with suddenly concerned faces, and Gabrielen felt as if he had just interrupted a friendly conversation. "Aryanne?" he blurted out.

"Gabrielen," she said cheerfully. "Bryanna and I were just-" her eyes grew wide with worry. "Gabrielen, behind you!"

Gabrielen spun on his heel and saw a thick and sturdy brown object fly into his vision. There was a loud crack, and Gabrielen fell to the floor with a thud. Black creeped into his vision and all he could hear were Aryanne's concerned cries.

*****

"Why did you do that?!" Aryanne shouted. Gabrielen was on the floor, slack jawed and unconscious. Blood trickled down the side of his face, and a pool of drool was forming next to his head.

Sam, the boy, looked at her with glaring eyes. He pointed his club at her. "How many more are there? Tell me now or else I'll bust his head open."

Before Aryanne could answer, the old man came running to the room, and shoved the boy aside. He took in the scene; Gabrielen lying on the floor, Aryanne still tied up in her chair, and Bryanna on the bed. He turned his stare to Sam, and the club in his hands. "Give me that before you hurt yourself!" the old man snarled as he ripped the weapon from Sam's grasp.

Before the boy could protest, the old man turned his attention to Bryanna, the girl on the bed. "And you! What did I tell you?!"

Bryanna looked wounded. "Papa, I was just-"

"What did I tell you!?" the old man shouted again.

Bryanna lowered her head sullenly. "I'm sorry," she said quietly.

The old man let out a sigh, like an angry storm returning to a calm wind. He looked at Bryanna, and then at Sam. "Leave us."

Without a word or hesitation, the two of them did just that, until only he, Gabrielen and Aryanne were left in the room. He shut the door, and the came back to the center of the room, towering over Aryanne and looking down upon her from his nose. "Are there any more?"

Aryanne wasn't entirely sure what he was asking about. "Any more what?"

The old man gave Gabrielen's sleeping body a nudge with his foot. "Any more of him? Or others like him?"

Aryanne shook her head. "I told you, there only four of us. Me, the man you killed, him, and my brother."

The old man stared at her with dark and unrelenting eyes. Aryanne couldn't tell if he believed her or if he still had his doubts and suspicions. She told him, Sam, and Bryanna the same story ten times over, and yet they still insisted she was lying, that they were bandits, and more of them were lying in wait to attack them. The old man kept a silence for a few more moments, and kept his eyes locked with hers.

Finally, he said "Where is this brother of yours? Is he a...uh..." he paused, and combed his beard with his fingers. "He an elf too?"

Aryanne nodded. "He's sick. I don't know what with, but he's not himself. Please let me go to him, I have to tend to him."

The old man waved his hand at her dismissively. "Yes yes, him and the dead man outside, I know. You must go and heal them, though I don't know what good you can do for a man who's gone to the crows." He pulled a chair from a desk and placed it in front of Aryanne. He sat down and came to be eye level with the elva. He brushed a strand of his long white hair aside and looked deep into her with his weathered eyes. "Are you lying to me?"

            Aryanne shook her head. "I'm not, I swear to you. We just were coming through this kingdom for food and-"

            The old man laughed. "Yes, quite the kingdom we have here, and I its King." He seemed to soften up a bit, and leaned back in his chair. He stared at her curiously, and leaned forward in his chair, resting one arm on his leg. "I believe you, I do...but you must understand why I'm cautious. I have children to protect, my grandchildren, and I would have no danger fall upon them. This world is full of evil and evildoers, and I..." he trailed off, and Aryanne let him. His story sounded painfully familiar.

The old man looked at her with curious eyes, the kind you might find within an inquisitive child. There was also some shred of hope in them, Aryanne could tell. She'd recognize hope anywhere, often in the eyes staring back at her in the mirror. "Can you really bring the dead back to life?" the old man asked.

Aryanne nodded slowly. "I can. Please let me help my friend, and I'll promise we'll leave you and your family be."

The old man's eyes had went from hard and cold to being warm and gentle. There was so much you could tell from one's eyes, Aryanne had come to learn. The eyes say more than our mouths.

"I will...but if you do something for me first."

Aryanne nodded quickly. "Anything, just promise me you'll let me help my friend."

The old man nodded slowly. "I promise."

*****

Aryanne looked upon the dog carcass curiously. It wasn't entirely rotted, but it had certainly been dead a while. It was an animal she had never seen before, not even in her books or drawings from Valadel. When she was a girl, her uncle had told them all of the history of the world, form the birth of the god Zennel and his siblings and their godly children, to the end of the days when men slaughtered her kind. He told them of the great elven cities, the universities, churches and stories of all elvenkind. He told them of animals the elves had dominion over, from the majestic soaring birds of the sky to the lowliest insects of the earth, and showed them paintings and sketches of them in the books they had. But she had never heard of a dog.

The old man thrust his shovel into the earth and came over to her, wiping his hands free of dirt and grime. "Well? Can you?"

Aryanne kept her gaze upon the dog. "I don't know...I've never healed an animal before, nor anything that's been dead longer than a few hours."

The old man grunted. "I'm sure if you can bring a man back from the heavens, than surely you can bring a dog back from the dirt. He wasn't old or sick, he just suffered a broken leg. If anything, his time was too soon."

Aryanne didn't say anything, but instead kept her attention on the dead creature. It had shaggy grey hair all over its body, and looked like a small horse. Its tongue was hanging out of its mouth, grey and limp. It made her sad to see this creature like this. This is what death is...

She had never truly seen death, not like this at least. When she found Danticus and Cristomir dead in the halls of Valadel, they didn't seem dead, just asleep. They had color to them, life still in their veins, just waiting for a spark. This creature was just...

She felt a hand on her shoulder, and she turned her head quickly, startled. It was the old man, a sad smile on his lips and that hopeful look in his eye. "Please," he said gently. "It would mean the world to my grandchildren."

Aryanne nodded, and turned her attention back to the dog. She knelt down and felt a warmth come alive in her wrists. Her veins glowed beneath her skin, running through her forearms and up to her fingertips, like thin rivers of pale gold. Wisps and threads of light flowed from her fingertips, and took to the dog like flies to honey. Before her very eyes, life returned to the creature. Fur grew back where it was once only dry patchy skin, and skin grew back where it was rotted meat. The dog's leg twisted and came together, as if it had never broken once before. Its tongue grew pink and wet, and before Aryanne knew it, its chest was rising softly. Finally, the dog's eyes opened slowly, and he looked at Aryanne with a timid and docile look, his head cocked to the side and his tongue just protruding from it's mouth.

Aryanne heard a stifled gasp from behind her. "Gods above..." she heard the old man say. He came next to her and knelt, his hand out hesitantly, wary to pet the dog, as if the dog would crumble to dust at his touch. Finally, the dog stood to meet him, and nuzzled its head against the old man's hand. Aryanne could see fresh tears ready to burst in the man's eyes, but he held them back. He pet the dog slowly, and looked to Aryanne, speechless. He didn't say anything to her, but to Aryanne, that said more than words ever could. She rose from the dog and his master.

"May I tend to my friend now, sir?"

The old man nodded, his attention kept on the dog.

Aryanne smiled, and turned to take off.

"Cotton," she heard the old man say to her.

"Come again?" Aryanne asked.

The old man never once looked away from his dog. He was petting it behind its ears and caressing its jaw. "His name is cotton."

*****

            Seigfreid's eyes opened suddenly, as if he had awaken in the middle of a night from the worst of nightmares. He bolted up, breathing heavily, his eyes restless as they took in everything he saw. Aryanne knelt over him, her palms glowing and her eyes concerned. Gabrielen was standing behind her with a bandaged head, and next to him stood an old man with a white beard and crossed arms. They were speaking to him, but he couldn't hear their words. He heard their voices, he heard them speaking, but he couldn't hear what they were saying. It was white noise in the background.

Where was he? He looked around, searching for anything familiar, anything that would ground him back to the earth. They were in Howlington still, he knew that much. No other place in all of Jorden is as shitty or rundown. What he didn't know was how long had they been there. He racked his brain for the last thing he could remember. Finally, Aryanne seized him by his shoulders and shook him.

"Seigfreid! Seigfreid, answer me," he could hear her voice echo in his mind.

He turned his attention to her. "Yes?"

That seemed to calm her. She slowly nodded at him, and let go of his shoulders. "He remembers his name, that's good."

"Is that unusual?" the old man said.

Aryanne looked at him and shrugged. "It can be. When I first brought Valyn back, he had forgotten who he was, and my uncle and I helped him learn everything again." She looked back to Seigfreid. "Do you know who I am?"

Seigfreid felt his wits return to him, and found the question entirely absurd. "Yes, I know who you are, elf." He stood up, but did so gracelessly, like a baby dear fresh from the womb. Aryanne went to help him regain his balance, but Seigfreid yanked his arm away from her grasp. "I'm fine," he snarled. "I'm...I'm fine. Where's the other elf?"

"Valyn is safe," said Aryanne.

Seigfreid caught the gaze of the old man standing next to Gabrielen, and there was a familiar air about him. Finally, it struck Seigfreid like an arrow in the back of the throat, and he pointed a malicious finger at him. "You!" he shouted. "You're the bastard with the bow."

The old man didn't move or say something, he just kept his arms crossed and his brow furrowed.

Seigfreid couldn't remember what happened, he felt odd. His throat hurt, and it was a pain he felt in the back of his neck. He touched the area with gentle fingers, and felt a scar, torn skin reunited. He looked at Aryanne, and then at the old man. "Did...did you..."

Aryanne took his hand. "Seigfreid," she said slowly. "Seigfreid, you were dead."

The words went past him, careless words carried off by the wind, words that had no business with him. He felt Aryanne's grip tighten around his hand. "Seigfreid," she said again. "Did you hear me?"

Seigfreid met her eyes of molten gold. "What?"

"You were dead Seigfreid. And I brought you back."

Seigfreid shook his head. "That's impossible, that...that can't be." Suddenly, he remembered Cristomir Stormwell, the faintest image of the ranger conjured within his mind. Seigfreid watched him die, watched one of those monsters sink its teeth into his neck and drag him off into the dark halls of Valadel. He remembered Danticus screaming after him, trying to wrestle free of his grasp, trying to save a man resigned to his fate.

And then he saw him again, in Jorden, when the expedition returned, alive and well. How had he forgotten? He looked at Aryanne, a grim realization in his eyes. "I was dead? For how long?"

Aryanne nodded. "For hours. But Lord Rickard here," she gestured to the old man. "He let me bring you back."

Seigfreid looked again at the old man with frightened eyes. He wanted to feel angry, but he didn't. Instead, he felt scared, small and alone. But of what?

"Seigfreid?" he could hear Aryanne call out again. He kept hearing her call his name over and over again. It was the last thing he heard when he fell to the ground, the world around him black.