An Interview with the Ashfiend

[Carnath-Emory]

Oh, this beast is intended to be precisely so intimidating. Chernyj Voron, she'd named it a year and more ago, and this phrase is not ordinarily a compliment: she'd insisted upon a horse of astounding size and abrasive temperament, and had received both in spades. It earns that epithet.

But this is not so poor a journey, in the swordswoman's estimation. She is not required to make conversation; indeed, it's better if she doesn't. The Olwak girl turns out to be an adequate rider. They move at a rate that does not delight her, but which at least satisfies. They survive it intact, so far.

That's always welcome.

[Teron_Ashfiend]

It is not all that long, perhaps an hour or slightly more, before signs of the Ashfiend's regular passage make themselves known. At first they might only be noticed by a trained eye as the distinct wilting blight that clings to plants and bends them to the earth, wrapped in brown, rotting clutches of some infectious disease. But as the trail winds deeper into the wood, occasionally marred by a handful of descending leaves, the scars grow more profound - trees whose trunks bear distinct white scars that creep over the bark like spider webs. Black ferns that have had the life strangled from them.

The animals grow quiet as if observing the grief that has beset their habitat, or having abandoned the place for lost beneath the growing shadow of the latest resident who was older than the current ones by far.

A small clearing that bordered the crisp shore of the Silver Lake held the oddity of a statue. A tall, dark thing fashioned in testament to some warrior lost to Myrken History, though perhaps remembered only by the pagan tales of the From-Bearn of Heath and their descendants. A statue still straight despite exposure to wind and rain. A statue until a breeze blows, bringing with it a ringlet of green leaves stained in gold and sets the black cloak that rests upon the statue into a gentle flurry of tattered activity.

As the leaves scrape against the fire-blackened armor they immediately darken, left with brown rot and white deathfrost, before tumbling to the ground and mingling with other leaves that bear the leprous white imprint of the Ashfiend who slowly turns to face them, their approach stirring his attention from the expanse of the lake and summoning his fiery gaze to descend upon them.

Arak's Ruin, its handle topped by a tiny silver skull, rested faithfully at his hip while a larger weapon, made for two hands, lay across his back and beneath the cloak, its hilt adorn with a small diamond set in the center. Opposite Arak's Ruin a small silver urn, its surface etched with runes, lay lashed to his belt by an old rope and short length of chain. The grave chill crawled towards his visitors, a tame cloud of despair that sought to whisper over feet and across ankles.

He offered them no words but stared with unblinking eyes and waited for whatever impulse had driven them foolishly into his grasp.

[Glenn]

The reason that Glenn had thought to not take Rhaena at all is that he expected such signs. For the most part he had taught himself to see them. He had noticed them at the library. He had noticed them in the cave. Seeing such signs could be the difference between life and death. All she had to do was give him the initial direction. No, he caved to her desire for inclusion because he was apparently very, very poor at saying no to her and his way to attempt such a thing generally included some backwards attempt at bluffing and trickery that always seemed to backfire.

And yes, the ride had been quiet. It was Ariane's nature. Rhaena was likely concentrating on her horsemanship and in finding the Fiend. Glenn, for his part, was working out the very words he was about to speak here. For really, how does one miss the Ashfiend in such close proximity. Simply, one does not.

Here is a poorly kept secret about Glenn Burnie. When danger calls, he is ALWAYS, ALWAYS afraid, except for when he is furious. Then he is something else entirely. Now he is not furious, however. He is afraid. The very large difference between now and two months ago is that now, when he is afraid, he acts despite that. He does not run. Every reflex, every instinct, every hint of common sense screams at him to run, but he does not. Glenn Burnie sits on his horse and he does not falter.

"Teron. Hear me out." Already, the carefully chosen nature of the words have collapsed to merely whatever he can push out of his mouth. "The last thing in the world I will do is condone your recent actions. But we have a common enemy nonetheless. Vraal has been here for months. He has wormed his way into people's hearts, into their very souls. I wish for you to destroy him Teron. I wish that very much. You have heard me speak on him, on this. You know why well enough. If you were to destroy him now, however, even today, then it would be too late. His plans are already in motion, his followers alerady mobilized. You would kill his body but his soul, his spirit, would live on in those plans. I need to know more so that we can end those plans even as you are to end him, so that he can be vulnerable and open to your strike. Will you answer my questions, Teron so that Vraal and his plans can be undone?" Glenn Burnie had the unique ability to say a great deal without taking a breath, and he used it now to the fullest. There was one chance at this. If Teron was not convinced by his words, then it would NOT go well for them.

[Carnath-Emory]

Such things as blight, such things as sickness, so that in time you come to know that this is a withering place, that they approach a point at which so little can live at all. Unlike Glenn Burnie, the swordswoman had required considerable experience of the Ashfiend's talents in order to learn of this effect: had fought him in a smithy first, which considerably lessened its impact; at ruined Aithne second, and who'd had time to notice such things then? Only during that terrible tavern fight had she begun to learn.

So that this is not familiar ground at all, except that it smacks of old, old tales; the sorts of things whispered to Dauntless children as they huddled in their narrow beds. The tales of leshiy and vodyanoy, and of the tragic rusalka -- who might drain the world of its very life in a way not dissimilar to this. Except that of course the Ashfiend derives nothing from this rot, the Ashfiend knows only to destroy....

So that it is a very quiet creature who has entered this place, in the wake of Glenn Burnie and unveiled Rhaena. She has set herself very slightly apart from them, moving the tall warhorse so that it maintains the smallest of angles towards and to one side of the pair; places Rhaena between herself and Burnie. And meantime waits, with ears for what Burnie has to say -- to ask of this 'Fiend, but eyes for nothing but Teron himself.

[Jirai]

Rhaena

And she was silent, this girl, shoulders hunching ever so slightly. It was not a pleasant place, and not only for the blight. But she had expected this other thing, readied herself against it. So it was that no expression crossed that scaled face. She sat her horse in silence, slightly behind Glenn, but not far at all. She listened.

[Teron_Ashfiend]

In the dead and dying circle around him he stands as its cancerous core. It is not merely his presence but what lies within, the snarling storm of endless fury that burns and sears and struggles against chains which bind it into flesh that should be nothing but ash and dust. It is what Rhaena can undoubtedly feel, and has felt before, that bleeds out from him in angry veins to corrupt and kill the world around him. Here is the ruin of a man who once sought to protect life. Here is the remnant of a man who can do naught but destroy.

Not far stood this trio, the mapmaker and the armor-clad woman both of which were familiar even as the echoes of clashing steel and the dim heat of showering sparks color the edges of his vision with memory. Or launching Glenn into the air with his potent magic, with pain enough that one's muscles were themselves anchored to pitiless, tightening winches that knew nothing of relenting.

This third, however, is a strange sight indeed. The lay of her scales captures his attention, searing eyes of fiery crimson, skewering and devouring flames, land heavily upon her and rake across what Rhaena has exposed. Her name and identity are merely silence to him as he blatantly sizes her up, one mailed hand falling protectively over the urn at his side while the other descends upon Arak's Ruin - armored fingers parted around the tiny silver skull topping its handle.

Ariane undoubtedly knew of Patience's request, indeed had even flung searing light into the midst of the battling quartet. It was in that light that the words stirred within him, echoing from beyond a gate long since sealed and buried within his ruined consciousness. Yet they speak of ending Vraal, of his legacy to this land and how his filth has infected others. He ventures a half-step away from the trio arrayed before him, eyes widening in the awful glimpse of another vision, of people pleading for him to accept a demon's challenge in the heart of a living volcano.

The hand tightens about the urn, one finger knowingly tracing one of the small, delicate runes etched into its surface as it has countless times before yet not since a decade ago.

"Vraal shall be no more after the squire delivers him to me. Still... ask your questions mapmaker," he rumbles from beneath the folds of a coiled gray scarf that shifted with the pressure from tattered, hidden lips. "Vraal and all his work, all he has labored to achieve, and all that he has hoped for... all of these things must burn. And die."

[Glenn]

Was that relief? No, perhaps not. How could anyone feel anything akin to relief when faced with this being, this FIEND. At least Glenn was able to exhale. At least he was able to breathe again. And no, Teron Ashfiend, do not think that he does not notice the urn, that he does not make the connection from Vraal's note which Cinnabar had shown to him, that he does not make guesses. But those would be for later.

Questions, now.

"Vraal, Teron. It matters little if he is truly is Valkadadesh or not, though if he is, I would like to know. What matters is that I know he must be truly ancient. I wonder this: Is what we see his true form? His true nature? Is he a demon or what else? If it is not his true form with which he walks amongst us , how can we see him for what he truly is? How can we reveal the truth, reveal the very physical darkness to those who would worship with him? If even that is impossible, than at least the truth of his bracelets, at least we should be able to reveal their nature, no?"

Yes, Glenn Burnie managed to pronounce Valkadadesh correctly. It was a word that you worked over in your mind, that your tried to master, lest it may come back to master you. And yes, that was one question, his first, no matter how many branches it might possess. Discrediting Vraal was everything now. It was the most important thing they could do.

[Jirai]

Rhaena

Oh, she felt it, even through the shields the girl had created for her own mind. The shields, at least, allowed her to keep her expression still for the time being. Gloved fingers did clench tightly around the reins, her body stiff. This did not improve for the Fiend's gaze. Oh no. His eyes settled on her and the tension that marked her shoulders just grew more pronounced. It took effort to remain so still, to force her face not to mirror the overwhelming wash of emotion - but she managed it. For now.

[Carnath-Emory]

What Ariane experiences during these moments is something other than relief, and this is almost solely due to her conversation with squire Patience just days ago. Treachery is not in the swordswoman's nature, deceit certainly is not; it is a fine irony that Teron had assumed her guilty of precisely such things, for here sits a woman upon horseback who very silently mourns the fact that he has been misled.

Very silently, and very slightly. Her thin features betray no hint of it.

Neither does the rest of her, but then one must expect this of a weapon. She is a straight-spined thing, saddled there upon the tall warhorse; she has folded hands upon the pommel of that saddle, and perhaps it's not so clear that the reins are arranged beneath those palms, in case of need. She has made no motion towards the weapon sheathed at her hip, and it is very likely not clear that there's practical reason for this. Her ears might be for Glenn's questions, but it is Ashfiend who owns her eyes this morning, and while the touch of that mailed hand to Arak's Ruin draws their attention, it is the protective clasp of that urn which pierces her.

A monster may spare sympathy for another of its kind, even if only very briefly. It is the one privelege afforded that sort.

[Teron_Ashfiend]

Alas for poor Glenn Burnie, who had proven himself a scholar of the first sort and though the name was spoken with good imitation of how some native speaker of the forgotten language might pronounce it the man had, unfortunately, added a single repetitive syllable.

"Valkadesh," he rumbled in a distant, hollow voice that trailed over the expanse of millenia, eyes dimming to nothing but stirred embers in a dying fire as his attention turned inward, towards the past and the searing heat of the volcano. Or rather the memory of heat.

"Valkadesh was a demon, Vraal's chief servant amongst his armies, who went with Vraal and the others of the First and Fallen Host before there was light and darkness, before there were stars in the sky. Vraal was one amongst many then, turned by the teachings of one who would not submit to the Unconquerable. And, since the birth of men, he had striven amongst his rebellious kin for the position of one of their lords, becoming Lord of the Seventh after betraying his own master and claiming a burning, otherworldly kingdom as his own."

The words left him in an easy recital, from rote memory as the legends were known to him since his breathing days and the rest had long since been filled in by Vraal's bragging tutorship in the Right Ordering of Things. A very dim gaze wandered out across the expanse of the Silver Lake, what sunlight that struck him through the many overarching branches that surrounded the clearing illuminated him as a ruined, wrecked thing of old gray rather then black - an ancient and weary color.

"His nature is a curse for his pride, for people see him glorious and winged, as if he had never fallen. To Vraal it is an insult that he and his fallen kin have not yet won their celestial conflict. His nature is hidden beneath neither cunning nor sorcery but his will, for it is his nature to appeal to senses, thoughts and desires and in so doing bring about the ruin of mankind."

A cold snarl creeps forth, flecking his words with the angered metal that all three have undoubtedly heard in the smithy, the inn and on the farm. "He is vanity and deceit, seeking the worship of mortals and lying easily for such is his native tongue. His temple to himself still stands, far from here, yet here he does not advocate his own worship. What the Violet Dawn is I know nothing of, for this is some new trick, new devilry, that he had wrought."

"Some confrontation with the Holy might unravel his disguise," he offered at rumbled length with a slight grim shake of his head. "But would reveal himself to seem holy in the eyes of many. He is immeasurably proud. Perhaps in assaulting his ego he might fly into a rage and reveal himself for what he is, along with the full fury of his power. Away from prying eyes, assured of victory in a coming conflict, he is not afraid to reveal himself as he is."

[Glenn]

Yes, that oversight had been, what? A slip of the voice, the man trying too hard, some desperation to get the word out. It didn't matter. Teron had told him so much there that it was a matter of trying to make sense of it before his time was up, before the Ashfiend's patience faded, before this no longer seemed like a tolerable thing to the Fiend and before the pain began.

Hell, Penroll, what was it that you fought? Valkadesh was just a SERVANT of Vraal. For a moment, two, three... for perhaps ten seconds, Glenn Burnie showed true fear on his face. It took his entire being to bite it back. You're in over your head, Glenn, but to quit now would ENSURE your drowning. Ariane was behind him. she who was iron. He took courage in that. He took it wherever he could.

There was one real benefit to the three of them being there. At least SOMEONE would get this knowledge to Calomel.

So, the cool disposition returned to his face, Glenn somehow managed to stare the Fiend down. "If all that is true, Teron, what does he want here? What is his goal in Myrken? What has his goal been in other places? With Arak? Did he follow you here or did you follow him? No, most importantly, Teron, what does he want with this cult, this Violet Dawn? What is he trying to succeed in? What is he succeeding in even as we speak?"

Despite it all, Glenn was keeping his emotions out of this. He was being academic. He was not rushing to the questions he felt the most need to ask, but the ones which were the most necessary. There was a difference.

[Carnath-Emory]

Glenn is right to place his faith where he does, but he is also right to factor Calomel into this matter -- or so is the reckoning of Ariane Emory, dark-clad sentinel upon this towering warbeast. For Glenn has asked questions that she did not wholly anticipate, and Teron Ashfiend has answered them with a candor and detail that she'd never have dared hope for, and now...

This has very slightly changed her responsibilities.

These are steady, cool eyes which calculate such things as the distance between herself and the 'Fiend (she measures these in terms of lunge and strike), the distance between his palm and that ruinous sword. This is a mind that weighs cost and loss and balance and gain, that very quickly determines what she means to gain from this encounter, and what she is willing to sacrifice to ensure that gain. All this, contained within the mind that lurks behind these cool, impassive features, and not a trace of thought marks itself there. Carve yourself a marble doll and dress it in grey linens, and you would have much the same company.

For now.

[Jirai]

Rhaena

These words are incredibly interesting to the girl, for reasons only Agnieszka might realize. Or, at least, they would become so when she has had time to think about what she was hearing. For now, the words are filed away for later consideration.

Ariane is an impassive statue, constantly calculating. Glenn is in complete control of his emotions - this is good, for were he not, she would be having even more difficulty.

She has promised several things. It does not break her promise to monitor the nearly overwhelming emotions that the Fiend projected. Indeed, it would be difficult not to. But it is to this that she is paying attention, for who knows what the slightest change may indicate.

[Teron_Ashfiend]

He remains still, a rusted statue with burning eyes, even as Rhaena undoubtedly senses the burning, hate-filled wind that stirs his soul at mention of Vraal and what the corrupter of men plans.

"I have told you that his plans with this Violet Dawn are not known to me," he snarls in cold derision as he again rakes his eyes over the mapmaker's silent and stoic companions. Whatever Ariane and the woman who bore traces of scales in her living flesh might have desired of him remained an unknown curiosity, a distraction for thoughts ever hellbent and burning.

"Vraal has always sought to become more than the Lords of the Nine, of which he himself is Lord of the Seventh, and to do this through coercing mortals to worship him. But he is not the center of the Violet Dawn. I cannot explain this, save to say that Vraal does not change and somehow he is ultimately being worshiped within this new religion of his."

"Arak was a demigod, a son of gods and goddesses, who sought to stand against Vraal in the ancient days when his armies marched openly and defiant of Heaven. He refused to bend his knee, or that of his people, to Vraal's will and my former master dispatched me to deal with his threat. He was the last true challenge to Vraal's power in those days and many who had fled from Vraal had taken refuge amongst his people. For three hundred years later Arak's lands worshiped Vraal until great and terrible waves dragged the entire land beneath the sea."

"The lands I inhabited were subject to war a decade ago, a war that crushed the ruined lands I ruled over and drove me from the world for a time. When I... stirred... I came to know that Vraal was already here. My suspicions were confirmed when the Dream Witch Galacia probed the Shepherd Knight's mind for Vraal's name."

A cold, hollow chuckle escapes him, adding movement to his stillness in the brief shake of broad, armored shoulders. "The name meant nothing to Malaroth. But I will never forget it."

"As for what he wants, he will never be content with small cults and private, secret worship. He is not content merely to ape the Unconquerable but rather seeks to surpass him. Not merely to gain name and power but to ascend, to destroy the Unconquerable, and revise all that is for his own glory."

He pauses them, the anger losing itself to darkness and a profound quiet that crawls over and engulfs him. Dimly and distantly he murmurs, "That is why we fought him so long ago. That is why I struggled with Valkadesh, in order to gain and destroy Vraal's Signet Ring, an item of perverse power that had given him an edge in his heavenly war. When I destroyed it Vraal turned his attention upon me, my home, and my betrothed."

A twist of concealed lips marked his self-bemusement, brief and perishable, as his words sounded to him like the stories of one of his comrades-in-arms did so very long ago. Suddenly weary with a nameless fatigue he moved a space of several steps towards a tall trunk and eases himself onto it as a seat.

[Jirai]

Rhaena

Rhaena was not, by nature, a very stoic person. It was an advantage provided by the veils, but here she did not have this advantage. And so the flicker interest and fear would be all too clear to any who happened to be looking at her.

"Dreamwitch," he had said. "Galacia."

She stares in silence.

This could be a problem.