NationStates Jolt Archive

"And what, what is this code that you speak of, that you follow Master Reon?" asked the interviewer with the correct and rather justified degree of respect that one was required to give such a prestigous man.

"Are you familar with the term Bushido within the context of Japan? It is most like this concept."

The single word was jotted down on the reporter's well-used notebook on a stub of pencil, which was just as used. Every word was being taken down, small personal comments on events and surroundings. This place was fascinating, and this reporter was taking down one of the first talks with this mysterous, solitary healer.

"Yes, yes I am quite familar with such a term my lord, I have read much of it. The mindset of the samurai, that of honour and service. In your mind, whom do you serve Master Reon?" The reporter excitedly asked, his voice becoming faster and more eager. He was losing his nervousness, to be replaced with overwhelming curiosity.

"I serve the people, the land, the spirits." Master Reon replied, his voice never changing in his regular calm tempo. This voice was the voice similar to a calm monk, a man who had dedicated his life to a purpose.

"So why here? Why here in this...place of ash? Place of death? Why here, in this nameless nation?"

The question had to be asked. It was the burning question on this reporter's mind. The reporter was the only one brave enough to actually ask this man if he was the causer of this destruction, or the solution to this wasteland. Alone they talked in a sea of ash, which was once a place teeming with life. And it once had a civilisation, as Iago Reon knew. It had a civilisation once.

"This place is called Velmora. This place had a great, terrible war. A war which you would not believe was possible."

The words demanded rapt attention, for one to be silent. The reporter scribbled his words down, this story the gold dust he wanted, even if it was the ranting of a spiritual man who believed he could heal this land of choking ash. Reon continued with his tale, slowly and with the respect it deserved. To tell it fervently would do it injustice.

"This land was consumed by it. The people were consumed with the defence of this nation, the attackers who were not of this world. They came to claim dominance, and the population steadfastly refused. The champion of the defenders lead them into battle...but this battle would have no victors."

The words hung omniously, the scene around them clear evidence of this cruel outcome. The winds were picking up again, the sea of grey ash which was once soil, trees, people. The air was dry, bitter to inhale. The eyes were irritated by this place, the endless expances of monochrome grey plains, the dull lifeless sky where the sun was barely visible, a growling orange in the sky of floating ash. It was as if the entire nation had decided to combust into self-destroying flame, and this was the great creature's husk left out to remind the world it was once here.

An island of ash, devoid of life apart from this one, insane man. The man who was just kneeling, praying in a language which no-one could understand. Words of the healer, the priest asking for strength to heal the world's massive mortal wound.

"How do you intend to heal this place?" The reporter said, his throat now constricting due to the increased amount of ash that was being baited into the air.

The simple and honest reply was, "With faith." which left the reporter not satisfied, but it did silence him for a short time. A short time to consider where to take the conversation next.

"But how can you hope to heal such a place as this? A place where there is no water, no life, barely breathable air? A place without hope?" The reporter asked, his voice more strained as the air granted him less breath. The cleric had no such difficulities in breathing as he kneeled, with his eyes closed as he meditated.

"Leave me to my work now. Other beings approach. Good day."

And so, the interview was over. This ocean of fine grey sand was no longer for questioning. The interviewer, who was nameless to Lord Reon, did not press the matter further. He knew that he could no further answer, and that something was about to occour. Something which was as mysterous as this druid of the land, mysterous as this land of ash. Although curious, the interviewer was not curious enough to endure this ashstorm, and whatever being this man spoke of.

He would have said something of thanks, but his mouth could not form the words, his tongue had deadened in this place. His eyes could barely see, and he was forced back by the storm which seemed to be focused upon the druid. How this strange man breathed and survived in this place was unknown, a further mystery. The reporter was forced back, a wall of furious ash now consuming the druid.

He slowly left this dead nation, an hour walk under the cold sun until he reached his small boat, which was upon a shore of this graveyard. He followed his faint footfalls in this endless drab sand, looking over his notes and going over the events.

What other person was this...Iago Reon going to confront?

Prepared with his oriental blade drawn in full pride and height, the honourable warrior of the earth stood ready to fight whatever was coming forth. And something was indeed was coming forth. It was howling, braying and barking, a terrible hound of noise alone, the sound crashing upon the warrior's spirit. The wind raged around him, bringing the ash closer to direct confrontation. This manipulator of the ash brought forth numerous cords of this ash substance to taunt and frustrate this noble warrior, who remained poised to strike and defend against any sign of the demon.

The snakes of ash struck against this warrior's desert clothing, the small amount of his face exposed to the elements being battered with ash, almost blinding him. He was used to desert elements it seemed, this person seemingly from desert roots. Underneath these simple practical robes of desert culture, lay chain mail twice blessed by high priests of his religion. This had protected him from the world's threats, along with his skill in his homeland’s weapon and his faith in the Gods. This holy druid who had come to this dead nation had the altruistic intention to restore Velmora. He had not been foolish enough to expect this nation would not contain evil spirits of some sort, a trace of demonic taint. After all, what could have caused such a titanic eruption of degradation to life? But...even with this preparation of both body and soul for the battle ahead, he could not expect to encounter such a being that dwelled in this wasteland.

"Come forth! Cease this casting of ash against me, I will not remove my person from this place, until I speak with whatever taint plagues this land!" The warrior challenged the spirit's taunting with a defiant challenge. The foreign man brought his robes closer to himself, his curved blade within his left hand, his right hand tight around the cloth around his mouth. The ash was thick and consuming, he could barely see. But, as he said the words, the wind ceased to storm around him, and long moments of silence filled the previously howling area.

The foreigner stood still, his robes were no longer fluttering about himself, his robes previously a maddened animal disturbed by angry bees of ash. No, the sands of ash were silent, still for long moments. It was as if the desert was considering the challenge, considering in what diplomatic way to respond. Pondering and contemplating the reaction.

But respond it did. A deep voice resonated from the sand itself, although the voice was most human. It was hardly the growl of a demon, it was a voice of a deep and disillusioned earth. A cynical voice which hissed it's words, and was full of barbs.

"Who are you, to come to this place where all is forsaken. Leave at once, leave it before you become but dust." The sand harshly spoke, more warningly then threat.

"No, not until I uncover what as caused this disaster!"

The sand growled, it shifted angrily at the words which were sharply brought in contestation.

"Your voice has a foreign accent, your skin is not of the dead people of Velmora, and your garments are from another culture. You are alien, your business here is nought but morbid. Leave before you yourself are added to this great plain of granulated bones and husks of souls."

The voice was gaining volume, and ash was getting less steady under foot. The warrior's resolve was being tested greatly. The dead earth would have quarrel with him, the spirit that had caused this could no doubt manipulate this place with no small skill. So the next words that came out of the foreign man's dry and chaffed lips were carefully chosen.

"I may be of foreign heritage…but I serve the Mother Earth. I wish to heal this place."

A deafening explosion entered Jafar's ears; his entire senses were thrown about into confusion. All was ash now, for Jafar had been thrust into the air with a concussion of violent sand. He was carried high into the air, and then allowed to freefall and crash in a mess of his robes. The cacophony of ash whirling around, everywhere around him, was so terrible and momentous Jafar seriously did think that his soul and mind were wrenched from his flailing body, to be buried into ash forever. Such panicked thoughts enter a mind when they are hurled so unexpectedly.

But his frantic thoughts were not true. The ground was merciless to the tumbling warrior’s body, which crashed upon the ash roughly. It forced what little amount of air in his lungs out, which made him reel and unable to react as a warrior should. The mind of this healer felt it too, so there must be a connection still. His weapon was lost to the ash whirlwind, which was now replaced by something before him, something which still constricted him worse now. The ash was no longer lifted by air, but by will.

Iago forced his stinging eyes open, to see what thing had just caused this, what this spirit had conjured to greet his reply. To fight one’s enemy, one must see him. That message of survival screamed to him, and he forced his body to comply with the requirement of sight. What greeted him, was a thing most horrifying due to the hulking size of the thing, and the implications of the appearance it took.

Coiled around Iago in a sinister embrace of ash and contempt, the spirit had forced the sand to abide by it's will, and formed itself into the shape of a harrowing serpent. It held the foreigner helpless, the snake head arcing forward to offer it's own verbal reply. Like the snake it emulated, the words were hissed out by the spirit with venomous barbs. It reduced the warrior’s composure to tatters, his instinct and mind truly afraid and in disarray. He had never encountered such a tone, such a raw confrontation with the spirits who would try and stop him from healing. They drove all training and mental defence to the next world, to leave raw trembling emotions to confront this thing of ash and will.


"Fool, this place cannot be healed! The very Gods themselves damn this place, along with me! There is *no* hope for mortal and immortal here!"

When Iago opened his eyes next, the view was very different from the one he had last seen. The desert plain had been replaced by a cavern of silver blue glass, a glass which curled in an organic manner to form the floor, walls and ceiling. The air was cooler and softer to the flesh, although it still was a reminder that this realm was a scorched wasteland. The air itself smelt dead, burnt, consumed of all life. But it was colder than it was on the surface.

Iago tentatively stood upright from his sprayed out position. His limbs were aching from what short conflict he had previously had, but he felt no real damage. Just the sensation that he had been struck by something forcefully all over his body. His memory came back with cloudy black ink on it, which he struggled to part away. He remembered the creature of the desert, constricting him...then he retorted with some form of spell...? Then everything went black, a sea of sand before it all went. That is how he thought it went.

"Where am I?” Iago said. Well, he made a noble attempt to speaking those words. As he was right now, barely standing on his groaning limbs, his throat was dry as the ash sand which had previously consumed him. It was as if his throat was packed with chalk as if he would smuggle it into a country like some precious bounty. Only rough and jagged pain met his throat's contortions, and he sharply ceased his efforts to speak.

He rummaged for his water satchel for some relief from this pain, and drained half of the vital liquid down to provide new function to his lips. He spat a small amount of it out which had become a thick glob of black. The aftertaste of ash was appalling.

"Velmora. No longer. Death. Ash. Gone! Leave!"

A voice called from further within the cavern. It was not dark beyond, the whole place was lit up by scattered lanterns which glowed a strange eerie blue in this place. It gave this cavern a reverent feel to it, as if this was sanctuary from God's wrath on the land up above it. It felt secure, yet confining. The voice had echoed from the twisting and shimmering walls beyond to Iago’s throbbing ears.

"Who...who is there?" Iago replied weakly.

"The last. The same who was above. But not quite the same. Different. I am confused...who am I?" The person replied, his voice sounded jarred. He seemed to have his mind not entirely on the subject at hand, an internal conflict within him as to the true state of things.

"The same creature as above? Explain." Iago said now calm and composed, his soul eased and his voice steady. He stood, looking into the caverns distance where the walls spiralled and crossed over, the path not blocked but not visible.

"Come. Words fail. I fail. Fail. Fail!" It answered cryptically, the voice softer now. Pained, confused. Yet familiar. Iago took a few moments to consider this request, looking around him more out of instinct and training than anything. He had no weapon now, and so did not feel entirely comfortable about following something which claimed to be that creature above. But there was something about the person's voice which told him to trust him; that he needed to follow to help him. Possibly help this nation.

"Very well…. I shall follow." Iago said, his steps matching his confident words. He carried on the path, going down and upwards for a considerable amount of time. Often, he almost lost his footing on the slippery glass underfoot, or became confused about the true nature of the walls as they were contorted in nature, revealing strange reflections and play of the light. He clambered over formations of glass, smooth and arched and beautifully placed; and then, after one long and arduous climb up a glass wall, which almost bettered the druid, he saw what the strange voice spoke of.

Bound and harness to a hideous yet captivating jewel which towered above into the darkness of the cavern, was a pitiful form of a humanoid. He was no human, but a vampire. A vampire of green skin, marred with his own dark crimson blood. He looked down towards the floor, hopeless and ragged, which his once proud flowing hair, poured down in despair over his head. The silver fibres where also covered with blood and ash, which were illuminated strangely by the hues of the jewel. The jewel shimmered a faint powder blue, and it was obvious it was ebbing and fading.

He was like a strange emulation of Jesus. Instead of nails, his hands and feet were actually within the great crystal, an organic throbbing thing which was slowly dying. It was not cut; it was natural and more dreadful due to it. The vampire was hung a great number of feet in the air, so that one had to tilt one's head back a fair distance to see him.

"By the Gods....what is this?" Iago said without thinking, his natural reaction of confusion expressed without restraint. He immediately was jolted by the reaction it had upon the figure, as he screamed out in a anguish. The tortured soul was being tortured again, the matryr being martyred another time. The jewel around him flared into a raging blaze, the powder blue replaced by an intense and overpowering colour of black, which had rivers of crimson storming through it.

The surge was like a whirlpool of darkness, it stole the breath, it stole the light, it stole hope. As it surged, the scream at the epicentre of this event remained constant. Iago lost all sense of self as it raged, his perceptions drowned by this bombardment of sorrow. He was being suffocated by all these black emotions, terrible and destructive. It almost killed him, but he remained whole through his willpower to resist. This destructive force would not consume him, at least not yet. Iago was determined to resist it, to escape death before he could return life to this nation. He entered the brink of losing his soul, all consciousness in the void of nothingness.

And then it stopped. It seemed so quiet now, the scream dead now. As was the figure. He had ceased what shallow breath he had before. Apparently, he had been given mercy in death, a release. The jewel faded into a colourless hue, now devoid of any shade.

Iago approached slowly, still recovering from the shock of what had occurred. He was mystified by all this, he had no concept of what was going on. This was like nothing he had ever seen, or heard of. It was something in legend, in other realms of existance. Not here. Iago approached the dead figure, and briefly considered what it was.

"Help me!" The figure gasped, new life striking into his reanimated body. Breath was restored to him once more, repeating the cycle which had lasted for longer than Kain could remember. The jewel returned to a powder blue, fainter than before. His body trembled and spasmed in the pain, his voice a sob.

"Help me, please!"

"How? How can I help you?" Iago asked rapidly, seeking the method to aid this poor person. He did not know the nature of this man, if a man you could call this imprisoned corpse, but what was happening to him was unjustifable. This was terrible beyond words, beyond reason.

"Do as I say....please..." Kain whispered, his voice in a staccato. He knew unbelievable pain from his current condition and the knowledge that his soul would be wracked again shortly, as it had always been done. Iago was the vampire's only salvation, to get an individual powerful and determined enough to do what was required. Someone whom Kain knew, and trusted.

The message was sent out through Iago, to an old ally of the last ruler of Velmora....more of an impulse to return to Velmora, a desperate distress signal, an impulse of arcane nature which implied the worst had occoured to Kain and Velmora.

And it had.

Fire.

Pain.

War.

Death.

Regret.

"Help me!"

Darkness surrounded the plea of desperate cry. Dark clouds roiled about before a battered, defeated face appeared in sight. Manacles and chains bound across the exposed torso. Fire and ash littered the air, making it difficult to breathe.

Coughing up plumes of ashes, the face looked mournfully forward, the dark eyes seeming to almost glow with pleading desire from the leathery green skin. I am dying. the eyes cried with a dying fire in them. Those eyes, once portals to a great mind, now threatened to never open after each ardous blink.

"NOOOO!"

The thunderous cry emitting from the elf shook the entire Castle. Even though his cry ended soon after he had delivered it, it seemed to echo for eternity. He sat up, panting with perspiration. The open window brought a cool breeze, yet he still felt like he was choking.

Choking on death. he realized. But not the death of him.

He stumbled out of bed, his bedsheets becoming tangled around one foot as he made his way with strained effort to the window and threw open the panes. He gripped the sill with both hands and looked out in the direction of the sea, far from the horizon, out of sight.

That way, lay the immortalized island of Velmora, an island that had long since ceased its communications with Tarlachia. Few knew of its true location amidst the beastly waves of the oceans, but Sigrun knew, for he was one of the closest friends of Velmora's last ruler.

"Kain!" he cried out to the night sky, startling birds from their roosts atop the castle. The doors behind Sigrun burst open and Arleni and Aeris came in quickly.

"Uncle!"

"Sigrun!"

The voices of both women were filled with concern and alarm. Seldom did Sigrun awake from his sleep with such disturbance. When he did, they knew something was terribly wrong. This time, they could tell he was greatly distressed.

He turned to them, his face seeming lost in another world. In a sense, he still was, for he could only see the hidden paths traced out across the island, revealed to him in the dream. Sent by only one capable of such a connection with telepathy over such a great distance.

Kain Brightblade Celadrin Shentavo.

Sigrun burst from his room, finally kicking free the bedsheets as he ran. The female elves could only watch as he moved quickly to gather his belongings. He only paused to turn to Aeris, "Get Pyros awake. I need him ready in ten minutes. Go!"

She complied by immediately bolting for the main entrance. Fifteen minutes later, the powerful wings of Pyros, one of the oldest and most revered dragons of Tarlachia beat the air with stunning force as rider and mount raced southward across the plains and rapidly approached the coastline. As they emerged over the sea, plumes of water spiraled upward and away in the passage of the dragon cleaving the air and sea with relentless drive. In under an hour's time, the mysterious island of Velmora rose from the sea, a lost island to modern men, but a haven of old.

A haven it was no more, for now it was the abode of death, of ashes. Ashes to ashes, and dust to dust...

Clawed feet clasped the battered island earth, an island devoid of all life. Seconds later, a pair of booted feet landed softly upon the earth. Instantly, Sigrun collapsed to the earth. The death so prevalent here almost seemed to overwhelm him. His hands grasped the soil with tremors echoing up his arms. Tears flowed down his face as he realized just how horribly this island had suffered, so far from his aid. At last, he rose to his feet, bringing his cloak to cover his face in protection from the ashes that filled the air like a suffocating blanket.

I'm here, Kain. he said silently as he brought up the mental image of the island, and oriented himself. He took a few steps to the right, before beginning upon the path so hidden by years of wear and death.

The island of Velmora was famed for it's impassable mountains, it's raging waters, it's formidable natural barriers which had prevented both attack and assistance from other nations. Velmora always had been extremely wary of strangers, and it was the nation's undoing. Kain's own efforts to make Velmora more open to other nations had caused the prejudiced to protest in droves, the traditional values being tested and the ethic of the Psi was being warped. People had accepted Kain for what he was, a vampire, but he was someone who was both respected and concerned over. The changes he proposed were not liked by all, who would have preferred a Psi to rule over the land of the Psi.

Some argued that Kain was still Psi. But none really knew the answer to that question. Was someone still a Psi when they had changed so much? Turned into a green skinned being who knew powers of necromancy, and had seen hell itself? Such actions were forbidden by the Psi to partake in, but Kain had tried to redeem himself by his selfless altruism. Few could deny that this hero had given much to Velmora. He had given his life once before, in the second civil war, against his undead father, Xzar Brightblade. The one which left him mortally wounded, and faced with a choice.

Death and heroic martyrdom, or eternal freedom in the shadows? It was true, Kain's choice had been self serving...for a time. Kain wanted to be free of his bond which were placed upon him at youth, bonds of duty and responsibility. But once free of them...he soon returned to pick those bonds again. Without the bonds, he was just another vampire who sought his own ends. He could not betray the memory of his mortal life, betray the people who he had vowed to protect.

Time has such a way of changing people, changing ideas. Kain used to have the same prejudice against outsiders, of monsters of the night. Believing all those who walked in the shadows had no compassion, demons had no logic or justification to thier actions. But he found they did, and not all was what it seemed. He met Ravelyn, his sire, who showed him values. The time they spent together was woefully short. Kain had often wondered what would have happened if Ravelyn was there when he had sired Daniella. Qui would have cursed them both, Daniella would not have died.

Everything he valued was gone now. It was the twist of the sword that he agonised in. The great ancient enemy of the Constructs had not been victorious. Neither side won, neither survived the twisting magics that had raged about this place.

As Sigrun put his first foot upon the land, it changed. Subtly, it changed somehow. Like a change in the wind, a movement in the sand. Something had altered, but it was not clear what. It was neither clearly positive, nor negative, just omnious. The same ash whipped around in the sand, the blotted sun still struggled to see the land, and death was still abound.

The sand called for Sigrun. It compelled him in a direction, granted him orientation. Landmarks were difficult to find in this place, as everything was this same black grey which used to be something alive. All the coloured seemed mixed into this dull, rough colour of dark ash. But if you looked strongly enough at a section of desert, you could make out faint lines of what it used to be. A river, a temple, a garden, a tavern, a small hill, a graveyard. The whole place was a graveyard. No tombstones however. All cremated, memories now.

The very air condemned his presence, heavy with the soot of past things of the island of Velmora. Yet, amidst the condemnations of nature, it seemed the land cried in joy at the arrival of a savior. Now, it only awaited patiently as it sat ensnared in the chains of its own demise.

As the wind bit and hindered the passage of the weathered elf, this elf who had seen a great many battle; had watched civilizations rise and fall like the ebb of the tide; who had watched a great many figures of both good and evil fall to their fate. Through it all, he remained resolute, a beacon of hope and a pillar of dangerous power. He was a solid rock in the tumultous storm waters of Time. Waves broke upon him, yet they did not break him. Velmora was just another wave.

The path seemed to open up slightly with each step, and then was covered quickly by the hand of Death. Many times, he knelt to scoop the ash earth into his hand and look about in wonder. What had happened? It was clear the land was one of the only survivors of a horrific war. It was obvious it had been a war of legendary tale. It was obvious that neither side had won.

As Sigrun released the handfuls of ash, he stared at his palms, seeing the stains upon them. The stains of death that threatened to be difficult to wash away. He merely brushed his palms together, and clapped them softly. Like a rock firmly established, the waves would wash away harmlessly.

And yet, the waves could wear the rock down little by little. No rock could withstand the wear of time, and the waves were its greatest weapon. Sigrun had been on this earth for a long time, and had been at war against time. The same years of memories that provided blissful thought, also brought thoughts of heaviness. Time was a double edged sword with a razor sharp blade.

His footsteps continued quietly, any traces of previous steps becoming almost immediately washed away in the roiling winds that rove over the island of Velmora.

Show me the way, Kain. he thought as he plodded through the seas of ash.

As Sigrun walked past the sunken tower, the noble construction now engulfed in the ash, another compulsion came stronger. It came from the tower itself, as it was the channelling device which Kain used to speak with him. It throbbed with arcane energies still, although the magic seemed to bleed out into the world, wasted and futile. Unfocused and effortless, the possibilities of the arcane energy went unrealised. It made the sense tingle, the hair stand upon end as one drew near to the leaking emination of magic.

Here.

The one word obviously meant for Sigrun to enter the tower. To enter it through the roof, and work his way downwards perhaps? To walk through whatever state it was, to go to Kain via this way?

The tower, a proverbial hand stretching for rescue, rose above the quashing dunes of ash that lay across the land. "Be gone, ash!" Sigrun declared at last to the dunes of ashes that blocked his path. He strove toward the tower, a ship cleaving the high waves with resolute purpose.

At last, his hands grasped the weathered tiles of the tower and he hoisted himself free of the ensnaring ashes. He stood as the dead wind blew about, blanketing the area. He looked about, not at all surprised to see that he could not see more than twenty yards in any direction.

A foot rose and fell sharply upon the tiles, yet they held. Several more kicks revealed the same result. Sigrun had to give the Psi credit, they knew their architecture. The sharp ring of metal leaving its scabbard suddenly threw the surrounding air into a frenzy, as if it excited the very air with the spark of potential combat. The very element that made the ashes so prevalent.

Sparks flew as the blade clashed viciously against the tile. With each strike, the wind howled like that of a damned beast. At last, the tile gave way under his relentless strikes, and tumbled away into a darkness much deeper than that seen in the night skies of the world. It was a pit to the bowels of hell, where even fire seemed to fail to light the mysteries of the deep...

As Sigrun pierced the divide between this place of knowledge and that void of ash, the darkness responded without hesitation. It devoured him whole within it to make this foriegn man part of it. The dark seemed a great silent hound, with oversized teeth which tore the light into nothing. To look upon it was to see nothing.

But Sigrun found that the darkness drowned for minute seconds. The darkness was imposing and fearful, but it was like a thin film of oil that Sigrun had just slipped through without incident. As Sigrun pierced the darkness, a physical entity in reality instead of some play of light or the illusion of the mind and it allowed him to pass. He fell upon the floor, a short distance from the roof itself and as Sigrun looked up to see where he had fallen from, he saw the thin blackness recover it's previous state as it became complete again. The yawn was replaced with a body again.

The hound seemed less like the beast that would tear you apart with those fangs now that you were on the right side of it. It seemed more like a hound that would tear off a thief's limbs instead. It seemed protective, possibly an arcane spell which was conjoured by the Tower itself. The darkness was a physical creation, an entity which defended the tower. What other defenders and wards were within this place?

The room was circular, the complete size of the tower. It was one of the largest rooms in the tower, and one of the most simple. It had a wooden, polished floor which was made of the nation's purple tinted wood. The same wood were upon the walls, and the ceiling was constructed of the same stone that formed the foundation of this place. That white stone which had a slight light blue tint to it in places. Upon the walls were runes which now flickered into life, granting a pure and soft white light to illuminate the vast chamber.

As the runes which were regulary placed upon the walls, ceiling and lit up in sequence to provide this warm light which was comforting. The chamber no longer held shadow as it was being banished by the responce of the Tower. It seemed that this place reacted to certain events, to provide it's creators with what it required.

As the light shone forth, sound came from the walls themselves. it was soft and terribly polite voice which denoted the voice belonged to a servant to a most respectable gentleman. It neither had any sorrow or woe in it's voice, and would be quite alien to hear in the desert outside. But in this vast empty chamber, it seemed somehow appropriate.

"Greetings. I am Dresdon, Keeper of the Tower and Overseer of the surrounding grounds. May I assist you in any way?" Dresdon asked, his voice rather disarming.

Sigrun came to a halt as the room illuminated around him by the power of ancient arcane masters. His senses tingled with reaction, exciting them. At last, the voice of the Keeper was heard and he turned his head to study the one who approached with hands clasped together in dual sleeves that entirely covered his arms. The figure seemed to be a phantom of a past time, a relic of an old age, of a buried age. And yet, he held a sense of realism about him.

Sigrun gave a slight nod and replied while shifting his position ever so slightly. Velmora had died under the chaos of war, but it was still possible that remnants of old lives remained. After all, Kain had contacted him, had he not?

"I am Sigrun Greenwood, from a land of life far from this land of death and ashes. The pain, the screams of the dying, it breaks my heart to witness such here...why?"

Sigrun's anguish over the plight of Velmora was clearly evident in his face. He was one that was tied into the earth with strong ties in his arcanic senses, that it could be the only way he could express himself. Such was true for elves of varying species.

The phantom frowned, and seemed perplexed by this and extremely concerned. A non-Psi was within the Tower, an event which had only happened once before under highly honoured circumstances. He was concerned with Kain allowing him in. Kain had just said that he would solve the current situation, and that was all. He had communicated through the tower's devices, so that it was more of a letter sent to the Keeper than a spoken command.

"Sir, I know your name from my records, but not of what you speak of. Explain, I do not know of what goes outside of this place any longer."

The phantom put his hands tighter together as he said this, his voice deeply concerned for the nation around it. The whole discussion sounded omnious.

"You do not know what goes on outside your walls?!" Sigrun nearly bellowed in his disbelief. "Are you so ignorant to not know the destruction that has changed the entire topography of Velmora?!"

Sigrun lowered his head, shaking sympathetically for the Keeper. "You Psi, whom have built great defenses within your structures, have also become blind to what resides outside your walls."

Sigrun walked closer to one of the walls, placing a weathered hand upon one of the runes. "Such runes, so powerful, and yet you are completely ignorant of the death."

He turned to the keeper, "Are you aware of the war I sensed was the cause of what now leaves even this tower nearly buried completely?"

The phantom only emotional change was changing from concern to a simple, calm and factual report of events.

"I was not aware. Or at least of the outcome of the war. I was not aware due to it, and the massive energies which I was consumed by. This tower, along with every single source of arcane possibilities provided energy to some great spell. If it was an friend of foe channelling the energies, I do not know. But I do know that this Tower is a husk of what it was, and my functions are all but useless! I cannot see anything beyond this tower, nor can I communicate outside it. I am the soul of a deceased Psi, a servant still of Velmora. My existance relies on the proper operation of the runes in this place. Such a massive surge of energy from this place...obviously caused me to lose existance for a time. I certainly remember nothing after it. So do not assume..."

His words hung off, the calmness of his voice lacking mourning or grief. It was nto ebcause he did nto care, far from it. He just had to get something done, and sorrow was not something which would aid. Reflection and service, that was the most prevelent elements in his mind.

Sigrun returned to his calm demeanor, though it was clear he was still agitated about the state of the land. He also worried for the wellbeing of his friend and advisor in many matters of the world, Kain.

Sigrun waved a hand, dismissing the issue. "Take me to Kain. I desire to speak with him immediately."

He knew that Kain would understand him, would know well what was going on in these parts. Death, destruction, armageddon caused by the hand of mortals. It was incredible, how effective it had been. Kain had called for help, and the one whom he sought, had answered. Now, only Kain had to emerge from whatever constraining shadows there were in Velmora. Shadows holding tentacles of a bygone era. History bound notable figures eventually. Was it happening to Kain as well?

Yet, at the back of his mind, Sigrun knew that his time was soon to come when he would given the greatest challenge of his life. It was not here in Velmora though, but it would happen not too long after this visit to this forsaken island.

The keeper of the tower said nothing more, his lips tensed together in seriousness. There were many matters which toiled silently within his spectral mind, the aged spirit considering what civilisation was left. He would be without purpose, damned to this tower. Unless this individual would assist the last final and greatest hero of Velmora, Kain. His fate hung in the balance, along with the bleak future of Velmora.

The keeper of the tower walked slowly, in quiet motions. This was a place of knowledge, calm and inner peace. Here the Art was studied, reflected and advanced upon. The Art of Magic, the single passion of all Psi, the blood of Velmora itself. Without it, the great tower would have fallen. Without magic, the Psi culture would be nothing. Magic was the centre of the lifestyle and concerns of the Psi. In this tower, rivals would study with one another, grudges would be put aside, and all collective knowledge would be shared into one massed fountain of knowledge. This Tower was library, university, temple and fortress. It was the pride of Velmora, and it was fitting that it would be the building that resisted the destruction of the nation.

The spectral ghost lead Sigrun down the Tower, down faintly glowing steps of dark marble. Cracked marble, with runes which strained to resist degradation. The tower it seemed, had been shaken to it's very core with the war. The entire place was in disrepair of some description. It was a more humble and cynical symbol of the achievements of the Psi.

The steps wound down, all along the sides were great vast doors. Doors which would lead into various sections of the tower. A section dedicated to the art of summoning raw energies, another one on alteration of elements, another on the combination of physical and the arcane. On each door was a stone tablet, in which was carved in the Psi rune language of it's purpose. Strange scrawls which seemed crudely made and out of alignment.

"When a Velmorian rune is tested greatly, the rune begins to separate from it's original structure. The wave of possibility is then altered, and the desired effect is not brought about. If the fracture in the rune's integrity is minor, it will most likely alter the duration, power or consumption of the arcane effect. If the effect is more major, the rune will come apart and automatically cease to function, or attempt to function. Many of the tower's runes have been completely torn apart in rapid, and harsh usage. When a rune splinters, the material it is carved upon often suffers similar damage. The Tower is fortunate to survive." The phantom explained, his voice practiced with explaining the ideas of rune magic. It occurred to Sigrun that the phantom could have taught a class at one time, similar to what Kain had done with him. It shared the knowledge they had accumulated.

The steps continued to wind down, further into disrepair and neglect. The lights began to fail, and the phantom occasionally became fainter. He provided a light in which to see, a blue flame willed into being which hovered ahead. And finally, a strange sight was to be seen ahead.

At the lowest point, where the stairs ceased to be...a great tunnel had seemingly forced itself into existence. It was if the chamber had been sucked into the cavern beyond by some great force. The winding caverns were of a strange glass material, formed in strangely beautiful organic shapes. It was obviously not part of the Tower's design. This was too alien to belong. No, this had been brought into existence with a sharp fury.

The phantom seemed disturbed at the sight. He had still not gotten used to it, and had never discovered the cause of the alteration in terrain. He pointed forwards, and spoke a few huskily words.

"Beyond, you shall find Kain. I can not proceed from this point. I am bound to the Tower, my soul cannot roam. May fortune find you, and the Wave be willing."

And with that, the phantom faded from view, slowly and as if he was never there in the first place. He was a shadow, a thing from another realm. And the place in which he had directed Sigrun was a winding passage of lowly sparking curved walls, cold and heartless. It had a strange lighting to it, a soft emotionless green blue. It made the eyes feel very strange indeed.

A harrowing scream emanated from the cavern. The sound of Kain's agony as the powers that were within the land were torturing him. It was dreadful to hear, a banshee wail which echoed sickening through the winding passages of this natural cavern. The sound receded slowly, leaving the air colder for hearing it. The Tower seemed to become more decadent, and more at risk of crumbling.

Sigrun's sense flared violently as he felt the cold embrace of the powers that lay deep in the earth at the other end of this jaded tunnel. He placed a hand on the wall, but yanked it back as it seemed to reject him with a cold electricity. Kain's cries dug deep into Sigrun's souls, telling him more about the mysterious presence than words could describe.

As he stepped forward, mindful of the strange walls, he illuminated a small light, a white glowing tongue of fire that hovered above his hand. It cast a soothing glow around him, illuminating his path more than the jaded walls of this tunnel did. There were several more cries of pain snaking their way toward Sigrun as he delved further with uncertain steps. Yet, Kain was somewhere down there, somewhere where he needed help.

As Sigrun walked, he couldn't help but notice the phantom-like faces that shimmered in the jaded walls, faces that bore pain, agony, and in some cases, regret.

Regret. What had happened? It was all a mystery to Sigrun, although he had gathered some clues. The scars of war were evident, but he had never seen them to the extent that he saw this land now. It was as if the god of Chaos had come down and lay waste by turning the very people against themselves.

Sigrun paused, blinking as he realized this may be the very thing that had happened. He returned his gaze to the faces, which had now fallen silent of their voiceless cries. They now watched him eerily, waiting, wanting.

They sought release, freedom.

Sigrun swallowed heavily, continuing further as he delved into the torturous atmosphere of this dark underworld, this land of eternal pain and suffering.

The path suddenly ended as Sigrun came upon a glass-like wall, sharp, jagged and reaching almost all the way to the ceiling. He frowned slightly, but soon had begun to carefully pull his way up. The wall behind his back was tight, holding him in place. He used it to provide a secondary anchor by planting his legs in front of him. With a concentrated effort, he slipped through the narrow, cutting opening and was beyond the obstacle. He rose to his full height and stared forward, illuminating the light in his palm again.

"Kain?" he called out, his voice echoing rapidly into the darkness beyond.

The endless void of darkness, terrible and malignant replied in a strange tone. It was a chilling whisper, a whisper brought by thin dying lips and ragged breath. The voice of the damned.

"Step....closer."

Kain's voice was a husk of what it what is was formerly. The confident, proud, and honourable voice was broken. Shattered into a low whisper, the discordant sound of his breathing the only other sound. This darkened chamber held the voice, somewhere. Somewhere deeper in the darkness, that living darkness which threatened to consume. It pulsated and raged about itself, a cloud of malice.

"Closer....nearer."

The voice was compelling. More steps were taken, slow ones which were prepared for something nightmarish to spring forth, bearing cruel death upon the living. The light that Sigrun had was dimming, cowering before this ocean of night.

The sea surged, all driven by one mind. It crashed upon Sigrun's body, and all went to darkness for a brief, terrible moment. It was the body had been poured out of existence, the mind filled with thick cold lead which prevented rational though. The soul had been drained, and refilled with a dead memory of a living soul. Terror ruled for an endless second, time nonsense in this place.

Then, all was revealed.

The martyr and tortured being that was Kain lay before him, hung out like some strange traitor to the Gods. The God's had damned this figure of one great stature, doomed him to an existence which granted him little respite and eternal memories of the sights. The sights of the world becoming dust.
Kain's head was arched forward, his white strips of hair falling slowly from his head. He was quite clearly dying, his very body in quiet and painful decay.

A vision plagued Sigrun's mind, an attack? No just revelation. A plain of grass, a field in Velmora. Sun bathed the scene, crops grew, homes built, peace. Then a battle, Consructs leering before the scene. The sun disappeared now, replaced with a dark moon. A dark moon within a sky of destruction. Great mounds of earth, rock, metal and wood were being drained of life, forming dust which raged about the battlefield into the sphere above, which hung insanely in the sky. Into a sphere of painful light. An alien, twisted and wholly unnatural light which hurt the eyes and mind to look upon it, a pyrotechnic of the arcane, a powerhouse in which the Construct army was drawing it's power.

Reality surged into place again, although both scenes were dreadful to behold. Kain slowly lifted his head, his body and arms trapped inside the great edifice of crimson gem. The gem which held him prisoner, kept him hostage.

Those eyes! Those sunken, despair filled eyes, marred with hatred, trial and fury. There was some hope granted to him, a sick and mocking hope which was his death. Death was a release from existence, and those eyes demanded it. Ordered it. Screamed for it.

Another painful memory. Kain standing upon a great mound of dying hill, already crumbling into dust as the battle raged on. Bodies were all around, being consumed themselves for the raw energy of magic. Few constructs still remained, the arcane machines designed for war. An obvious leader of the Constructs was sending down great rains of magic and unbelievable rapidity, her manical screams of desperation constrasting with her army's silent nature. She bellowed in that duel voice of her which revealed the etheral nature of her soul. It screamed at Kain, demanding at the Gods that he should die.

"Why won't you die! Die like your damn nation and your people! Die Psi! DIE!"

Reality once more came into focus. This shift from dream to reality made the mind lose orientation, made one question one's own personality, one's existence. But Sigrun remained here, in this cavern with the dying hero.

Kain's skin was blackened, the green texture completely gone. He was a diseased and malignant black, which had no vitality to it. His previous leather texture was replaced with a brittle, flaky exterior, similar to chalk. He was literally crumbling away before Sigrun's eyes, both in body and soul.

The final memory, more detailed and vivid then before. Sound was gone. All sound had disappeared. A vacuum of sound, and light. Everything appeared white or black, nothing else. There stood Kain, in defiance with the Brightblade pointing towards the great sphere above. That great gravity of magic which was storming Kain. The Brightblade was preventing Kain's demise, but barely. The blade was aflame, the skull hilt alive with the energies present.

One could see Fable on her knees, forcing this torrent of magic to proceed even if it cost her the soul which was trapped within the frame she possessed. Such hatred she bore towards Kain, the one who defied, the one who refused to die.

Kain's face was still grim, yet defiant. The final protector of Velmora, the hero of the nation was fending of the final fatal foe. His face knew no prediction for the battle. There was nothing beyond the current second, the vast nature of his arcane war beyond comprehension. Thousands of magics were undone, redirected and forced upon Kain again, again and again.

Fable smiled finally, and stood back. She fell into the dust, becoming dust herself in mere seconds. The smile was of a taunting victory, the final vicious act which was to be Kain's doom. Her silver energy went up into the sphere of magic, and forced the torrent to recede. Kain stood his ground, the Brightblade remaining firm within his taloned hands. He looked up the orb of power, watched as it pulsated in preparation for the final attack.

The final, terrible attack came simply. Everything lost relevance and meaning, reality all nonsense now, a far away concept which seemed absurd. This was raw possibility, the raw nature of magic consuming Kain. The final farewell, the final adieu to the warrior. The Brightblade burst into colour, a raging crimson which filled Kain with horror. The flame lasted a second, and then all left from view. Fable had forced herself into the Brightblade, and acted to prevent the device from defending Kain for a precious second. It cost her the very soul she was given, but she relished in the final second of her existence as she observed Kain's downfall.

The world warped around Kain with sickening speed, a flash of alteration. Kain was rammed and entrapped within the jewel, slowly and cruelly drained of his life essence. The husk of Kain remained here, and the memory flowed seemlessly into reality.

Kain's eyes shot up to the vast darkness above, his head arched back in a sickening contortion. Those eyes, those terrible eyes towards the dark void. His lips moved, his voice heard to only Sigrun. That harsh, desperate voice which demanded;

"Let it end!"

Sigrun grimaced and fell to his knees as the images poured into his mind, telling every detail of the terrible truth that had scorched the earth upon this isle. It had become armageddon in every sense of the word, except for one thing.

At last, with great sweat covering his face, Sigrun raised his eyes to look upward to the tortured soul. Those old eyes of his friend, his mentor now looking skyward and his shattered voice crying, "Let it end!"

Sigrun looked skyward to follow Kain's gaze, but it ended in deep blackness. A mystery of its own as Kain remained fixated on something unseen to him.

"Kain." he called to him.

A hand spun rhytmically to the earth in front of him, creating stone stairs to reach Kain's level of suspension. Slowly, Sigrun ascended, nearing the decaying hero of old. Both hands reached out and gripped Kain's face, turning it downward to look into his eyes.

"Tell me what I must do..." Sigrun implored, ignoring the flakes of flesh that seemed to fall away by his touch. And yet, there was something else. A new power, a new life given by the touch. An unwitting response.

Sigrun watched as tendrils of magic coursed from his own hands and into Kain's body. "Take what you need." he whispered, as he closed his eyes, feeling the inevitable feeling of vertigo and weakness.

Sigrun was willing to give his life to free his friend...

Kain shuddered a moment, the arcane energy flowing into him during the brief mercy from the crystal. He only took a spark of energy, a mere whisper of the language of possibilities was all he required, denying the vast amount of energy his friend was offering. It was not required, nor could Kain harness and manipulate the energy as he once could.

The vampire took this nuance of energy within his mind, held it there for a moment, and expended his ragged mind to do as he commanded. The old internal thought patterns required to perform the act of command came into brief, hazy focus. It was painful to form the words in the mind, to form the command, but Kain did so to ensure his own peace, and that his legacy continued, that this was not for naught.

It was not clear at first what had occurred. Kain had used a fragment of arcane energy to do what exactly? His grim features remained frozen, all external emotion disappeared now. He was a monochrome statue held fast by the shackles of an old enemies hatred. His eyes turns to black stone, polished and devoid of intelligence. A statue he appeared as, and statue he now was. His dying flesh made black stone, which would be smooth had it not been covered with a mixture of his own blood and ash.

Long moments passed, speculation and pondering set into the chamber. It was the deadly quiet which made it unbearable. The solitude of contemplation. There was no tension before a storm, no rumblings of the earth as it prepared to ravage the soul again. No. Nothing more, but silence.




Silence.



Silence intruded upon by a humble shifting of ash, so humble it would have avoided the ears completely had it not been completely and terribly alone. The sound was an object drifting down one of the numerous ash piles in the corners of the cavern, drenched in darkness which was now intensified due to the crystal not being active. It gave out an odd grey light, extremely subtle and more disturbing due to it.

Sigrun turned to the sound, and found his eyes pick up the features of a sword within an odd sheave. The sheave was made of purple wood and wrapped tightly with royal velvet cloth. The sword seemed to throb warmly, the quiet action in a motionless chamber.

Kain spoke, his voice whispering, calm. His old self, at least slightly. His voice was of an elderly, fatigued man, but one who seemed to smile as he spoke the soft words, "Put the sword before me."

Silence can hold many meanings for an individual. For some, it was the calm before the storm, an inevitable feeling of something more terrible to the mind, to the experience of life. In such cases, it was like a dead calm, often found to occur before the onslaught of a terrific and terrible storm of Mother Nature.

For some, it was just calmness. There was no anticipation, there was no dooming event to come.

And yet, for others, it was a calm before the fighting that would erupt into warfare. It was also possible to be a calm in the midst of war, in a time when the war had all but died.

Such was the case here. And oddly, it felt like a calm of soothing variety. It was a paradox in its own. It could even be mistaken for a calmness found after release.

Sigrun descended the stone stairs, and reached out to grasp the sword by its hilt and sheath, unlocking it from the hidden arcane power that held it suspended in the air before him. He looked down onto the sword, pondering its purpose, and then turned to the statue of Kain, that statue that held an eternal look of pain, and of courage beyond mortal understanding.

He returned to stop before the statue and spoke aloud, "Here it is."

He knelt and placed the sword horizontially upon the uppermost stair and retreated two steps back downward. He didn't know what Kain was planning to do, but he knew Kain held an understanding of magic that few understood, and he held many secrets about the art that even Sigrun knew little of.

He would watch, and he would wait...

Kain considered how best to perform the final act of power he would display. His thoughts were rapidly slipping from him, his mental state in complete confusion. His body was separated from his mind, and there was no possibility of returning. Within freefall, it was just a matter of time before his soul crumbled completely, the shell which housed it locked from him. He did not understand what was entirely going on, nor did he know of definites of the afterlife. Ravelyn told him the vampires could not die, that the soul remains eternal. Would the soul remain eternal for mortals too? Would he just wander the mortal plain, a spectral ghost? Such a fate was chilling, and Kain only contemplated it for short terrified seconds.

No. I will not allow fear of the possible overwhelm me. I have precious time now to act, while my memories remain. I feel the magic still available to me, although it is slipping through his fingers. The arcane must be used while it can! I must ensure that my death was not in vain! I will make this final...final sacrifice for the good of Velmora!

Velmora? The place was ash, the Psi but a bitter memory! I am the last of a dead race, and a poor example of it. I am vampire, with demonic energies powering my existence, thanks to the taint of the demon which had resided within the Brightblade.

No! Disregard such thoughts. Concentrate!

The depression of futility passed. None of it mattered anymore. All that mattered was that he attempted this great feat of magic, and nothing else. Forget the pain, forget the thoughts of failure. Such thoughts spelled defeat. And nothing will defeat me! I have never failed when the challenge of arcane was there! I have defeated demons, angels, vampires, mortals and defended myself against Gods! The onslaught of my own mind being dragged away will not defeat me! It will not stop me from completing the circle, to continue the legacy of the Psi! My legacy! My lifework! My people!

Fuelled by a new found resolve, and focused upon the event at hand Kain began to work the arcane energies which he had never attempted before. Indeed, his new found liberation from his body provided amazing clarity to his spell working. But such clarity came at a terrible price. His soul was being drained in the process; the claws of whatever spirits were trying to wrench Kain's soul from this world into the next. Kain was having to combat those vengeful hands which made the personality, memories, and very fabric of his being disappear, as well as the chaotic energies he was summoning. Indeed, this would be the most challenging combat he would ever face. The final battle that would expend his very soul.

The cave remained vacant. The silence still remained as Kain's brief internal conflict was being resolved. One could detect something rumbling within this place, which made the soul feel pulled towards this great whirlpool of energy. The ghosts of spirits were present here. Not only Kain's, but Psi who were drawn to this place by the final act of its leader. The greatest leader of Velmora, the greatest general and the greatest Psi mage of Velmorian history.

The first note was played of this great orchestra of magic. The Brightblade was drawn by spectral hands, the sheave crumbling into pure energy. The silver light was drained into a focused point of nothing. Cold, intense silver light which illuminated nothing. The Brightblade was presented forth, held upright up unseen forces. This would be the instrument of Kain's final work. It was the final relic of the Psi, which would offer the final gift of a martyred soul.

My will be done!

Runes burst into being, crackling and flaring in glorious nature, all glowing with intense blue flame which was the hallmark of Psi magic. They lined the walls of the cavern and make the air burst into possibilities. The mind failed to understand the complicated operations each rune took, as they harmoniously interacted with one another. They took voices of their own, adding to the thunderous roar of magic working. They worked on a pillar of light which was the Brightblade, adding energies of countless runes.

The magic was working! It will work!

The pillar of light grew more and more dense with the raw stuff of magic, crackling and threatening to get out of control. What was Kain planning? What was this great act of magic going to accomplish? How could he still control such formidable power?

The answer came soon enough. The pillar of light was gaining movements of it's own. It began to swirl erratically, like some insane spinning top. It was growing out of control. And Kain was losing energy rapidly. His soul was being expended as he performed the magic, his memories, personality and emotions being drained. His soul was being drained in consumption of this spell. It did not matter. It was better than whatever fate awaited Kain. Kain did not know his name anymore.

Something was going wrong. Kain understood a fatal mistake, a miscalculation of power. His frustration and anger was terrible and completely understandable. Here, his soul was going to be consumed. And for what? So that he could just let all this arcane energy snap out of control? Everything was hazy, all was getting dark. The blaring energies which he had summoned were flaying out of control, the runes were beginning to crumble.

I have failed! Kain screamed silently, his voice nothing now. His soul raged and flamed as it was consumed into the power hungry spell which was gaining a life of it's own. Intelligence was within the spell now. By powering it with his own soul, somehow he had given it independence! Kain felt the wilful nature of this beast, how ravenous it consumed him! Darkness fell around him, reality faded. Limbo awaited him, sweet comforting nothing. His knowledge of the arcane, memories of the mortal world, understanding of lessons....all flowed into this new...creature.

Kain Brightblade Shentavo was no more. He was consumed, his essance lost to the magic. The memory remained. His soul was torn apart, and placed into the fire of creation. It was somehow fitting.

What occurred next was difficult to understand. Certainly Sigrun knew that whatever arcane process was occurring, what great feat of magic he was witness to, it had just been completed. The pillar of light flooded the room in blinding silver light. The light became everything and nothing. Reality ceased to be, and time was irrelevant. All that is, was, and ever will be, would be this silent light that paralysed and made the body fade.







It ended.

The light flowed out of the mind just as instantly it had flooded the cavern. It was done. No more magic existed. The runes had faded into nothingness. Kain was gone. Nothing remained to indicate that such godlike power had been presented. It was not all of Kain's own. The spirits of the dead Psi aided this desperate struggle of wills. All had been consumed by the spell, including the Brightblade.

But, the product of the spell soon presented itself to the hollow cave. A figure came into being, as if he was made from light itself. He was like a ghost, fading into being. Swathed inside dark blue robes, and completely mysterious, he huddled over himself, kneeling. His breathing was hoarse and shallow. This person obviously was trying to recover himself.

What was this being? Was this what Kain had intended? Had something gone wrong? What had happened?

The man spoke. His voice was soft, disturbed and completely chilling. It was the voice of a new man, a voice of a victorious man. A man who had fought against the will of many, against the nature of things. Was it even a man at all?

"I....I exist!"

A choked and rising laughter came from this man's mouth, filling the cavern with his cold mirth. It was a laugh which laughed against the will of things, a victory against terrible defeat.
He had won! He lived!

But who was he?

Sigrun watched as the scene unfolded before him. His eyes were unable to pull away as he watched the unimagineable become possible, as victory was drawn to a starking revealing. He felt the earth shudder, and instinctively braced himself by lowering to a knee and a hand holding the ground next to him.

"I...I exist!" the figure cired out in a raccous laughter. Sigrun stared at the figure, trying to part the shadows from the figure, trying to place a name to the new being now before him.

"Who are you?" he asked at last, awaiting the response with tense hesitation.

He breathed in, his lungs giving out a slight rattling as he did so. His body trembled slightly as he did so, his new physical form still trying to gain a foothold in the world. It seemed bound together by those heavy robes of dark cloth he was swathed in, as if he was stitched together by it weakly. If they were torn apart, his soul would leak away.

He held out his pale white hands, which were slightly tinged with blue. They too trembled in shock of the whole event. The man swallowed and let out a sharp, crisp whisper.

"I do not know. I lack clarity presently. Give me time."

He seemed to be gathering his thoughts. He had only entered the world a short time ago. What thoughts must be going though his mind? He understood language, how to speak, so what else did he know?

"Disjointed. It is all disjoined, cloudy. Frustrating....frustratingly clumsy this memory. Feed me infomation, if you would be so kind."

His words were not polite, just gasped out as if he was drowning in cold water. Something about the way he spoke the word feed made Sigrun feel wary. It was more of a command, a requirement of this person to know what was going on.

Sigrun rose to his feet once more and studied the one before him. He was not making sense, nor did this whole situation make any sense. Kain was gone, that much Sigrun realized. He glanced around, carefully surveying the area around him. He noted the lack of arcane energy. It had disappeared. Completely.

Sigrun's eyes returned to rest upon the figure as another cough rattled its body.

"There was a war here. Many died, many suffered, but none suffered as much as the leader. He who was an abomination of both races he was, gave his life to free his people, his home of the destructive power of the constructs. He succeeded, but at a great cost. That is all you need to know."

Sigrun didn't like the presence of this being, and felt it necessary to feed only the basic information to it. A silence fell between them again.

"Now tell me who you are." Sigrun demanded, his own voice returning the commanding tone, but with much more experience backing it. He was, after all, still the ruler of Tarlachia.

The huddled over man, this newly created mortal who struggled to breath stood up slowly. He was unsure of his footing, that much was clear, and when he stood up he seemed a frail man indeed. His clothingdid much to conceil his actual frame, and his face. Whisps of long silver hair trailed down from that overhanging cowl.

"Who am I? A more pressing...pressing question would be, what am I. I have answers to neither question. Sigrun." He added Sigrun's name as a gasped afterthought. His speaking was disjointed, and he was obviously in some internal conflict of some sort.

"Is this place...Velmora, safe? Am I safe?" he asked, his movement swaying slightly. Not out of weakness of the flesh, he was gaining more strength now. It was more in emotion and the thoughts he was having. So fast, so rapid.

Sigrun studied the man, as he stepped into some more lighting. He seemed so familiar, and yet there were vast differences. He thought carefully as the man spoke slowly to him, as if testing out his voice. He raised a slight eyebrow when the man gave previously undivulged information.

"What you are, I'm not sure. I've never seen what I saw before. It is all strange to me. I don't know what Kain was doing, or why. All I understood what that he sought release...freedom."

And then Sigrun fell silent as his thoughts commanded his attention. He mused over Kain's actions and then startled as he realized fully what his friend had done.

"Freedom! He has obtained freedom! And what more...you are the one to stand in his stead. He gave his life, to give life."

Sigrun looked around the area, raising his hand to illuminate the room with a flame dancing above his palm. As the flame grew, the shadows shrank away. What Sigrun saw around him, confirmed what he suspected.

"Velmora is safe, child of Kain."

He smiled warmly.

He shuddered one final time, and gathered the robes around himself. He stood up fully, not huddled over and shivering. His eyes darted around in desperation, apparently trying to piece together memories, thoughts, morals, emotions. That would take him all of his life to do that.

"Velmora is safe? A dead nation is safe. A nation that in my tattered and mystifying memories is home. But these memories are not my own. How in the hell am I supposed to carry on from this? Who am I? What am I? Kain reincarnated? Someone completely new? I am thrust without answers into this world without purpose, just hints from a moral code and mentality passed down from my...father. Wonderful. Simply wonderful. Excuse me if I seem bitter about the fact that I am left to discover who and what I am without assistance, no clue but memories not of my own."