NationStates Jolt Archive

Sigils of Power
Part One: Death To Jor


Jor stands quietly on a rock that appears to be almost as shaggy as his hair. He can sense his mate and offspring waiting, burning with painful uncertainty back in their dwelling. He turns his head in the whipping wind to watch the village just down the steep mountainside, considering the conflict hidden in the hearts of those who held him dear. They see, as he does, the honor of being asked to meet the Grand Magus in single combat, along with the highly likely event of Jor's untimely death at Dugren's hands.

Turning, walking, pulling himself back to his dwelling, Jor runs through the words he needs to say to his mate, Dala. As he opens the dark door, the words drift from his mind as smoke does in a high wind, disappearing in the sudden energy. His breath catches as quickly as his words had disappeared, and his eyes shift to meet hers. They both feel it, the tension of a coming loss, the imminent tearing of treasured bonds. Their bodies come together tightly, holding, seemingly without effort or thought.

The children join the embrace of the parents, their eyes holding fears they had not known before. It is a difficult parting. Jor begins his journey the next morning, before the waking of those he loved, avoiding the pain he knew would come to them from a longer parting. The path ahead is rocky, steeped in troubles, some of them old and familiar, some new and peculiar. Jor faces them as he does everything, with conviction found in life and courage born of love.

*****

The wind whips and whirls across the plain towards Oxir, blowing between her broken and bleeding lips. The two Patryns standing over her, still and cold, had suddenly surprised her with a violence that could only come from hateful hearts.

Their impassive faces seem impervious to the chill carried on the wind, and she wonders why wanderers would wait and attack a poor Patryn on the road. A moment passes, and the violence begins anew. Oxir moves with the wind, her legs shooting swiftly between the legs of her attackers, striking sensitive skin with the force of a smith's hammer. They fold, bodies falling forward toward her, and she scrambles back. Her hands find her staff in the dusty plain grass, and their heads are hit with another blow from that same smith's hammer.

She runs, still bleeding, in the direction of the city, seeing only safety ahead in the company of her family. Stumbling miles seem longer then they are, and she slips, sleeping in the dusty plain grass.

*****

The rune-covered walls of his room are comforting, soothing Dugren's smooth muscles that have grown tense and tight over time this day. He removes the robes covering his rigid frame and begins his routine of stretching, strengthening, and loosening his body one powerful part at a time, turning it into a relaxed deliverer of death. The magic moves within him, a man's life participating in the menacing essence of the elements.

Dugren knows the necessity of this power, the nexus he faces in fighting with Jor. Dugren is of the Dragyn clan of the Patryn people, a power in his own right, but he sees a depth undreamed of in Jor, and draws the other to him so that Dugren can draw that depth from him.

Deep in dark dreams of death, Dugren sleeps as a seeker of power.

*****


Daryk smells the sweet scent of a fresh scroll and smiles darkly. Death poetry, written with runes of power and read by Patryns, would begin the end. Thoughts of endings brought thoughts of Dugren, Daryk's son. The boy plays his part, toying with the victims chosen by Daryk for his dark purpose. Dugren plays to win his father's approval, a chance to gain his father's station, and this is a fact his father is familiar with. Sigils of soft shadow lay on a dark table, lighting the night as they glow in shades of fire and water. The end of life echoes on the pages of poetry, throwing itself glowing into the night.

He faces sleep, a slumber from which he shall wake and begin again, inscribing runes of pain and death upon the sweet-smelling scrolls. He finds dreams, dreams of dragons and death, devouring life from land and love, scorching and scouring away all obstacles to Daryk's power. Deru, his mate, meets him in the dream, dying in the stream of his power. He still dreams, smiling and moving on as her life is burned and breath is turned to oblivion. He sees Dugren in the dream as well, the boy sneaking up on his father, but the harder Dugren tries, the faster he dies. Daryk's dream ends in nothingness. There is nothing left to dream, and this is his dream.

Darkness dies to new life with the light as Daryk wakes.

*****

Jor sings of death as he treads the dry plain grass, and the wind whips through the rearward pass. Death is his past and his future is death. Life is within the present, and all within the present is still within his power. Jor is unbounded on the Wave, pushing the waters of possibility, seeing the waters of reality. He is not shocked at coming upon a still form in the dry plain grass.

Oxir awakes to sound, a song of life sung by a stranger. She sucks her sore lips, easing the dryness, watching the stranger with wary eyes. She has tasted pain before from strange Patryns. But the man before her is singing the sigla of life, and is not taking her life.

Jor uses the time-honored circle to heal Oxir, the runes joining, strength and health flowing, ending weakness. The plain grass blows with the wind as they begin their journey to the city.

*****

Dala's eyes are dark with sorrow as she stands in shadow, watching, waiting, worrying...for Jor. She knows he will not return to their gentle home for many days, and that he may not return at all given the dangers he must face. The danger she fears most materializes on the dark horizon as if summoned by her rune-structured rumination. The shadowed serpent forms, framed by wings of death, rush towards her on the quiet wind. She turns, her heart full of fright and her eyes burning with longing for Jor, knowing their children will suffer and die this night.

The Dragyns sail, swooping into the mountain meadow, carrying themselves on the wind with wings of death. Dala watches the Patryn wyrms, a cold smile softening her face as death greets the first of the dark Dragyns in the form of a series of Sartan runes written in the soft soil of the meadow. The sigils, once sleeping, wake and throw a blue lance of fire into the sky above the unlucky interloper, burning through its body. Dala takes advantage of the distraction, throwing off the cloak that hides her glowing rune tattoos, releasing their magic with all her power on the four remaining Dragyns.

Harsh moments pass in blood and fire, and when the moments end, the two Dragyns with life still in them are standing over Dala's broken body, breath burning their lungs as they recover from the exertions of the evening. They aknowledge that she had fought and died with a ferocious honor, cold and calm as she brought death to the Dragyn clan. They do not remember to complete their mission and kill the children of Jor, wanting only to return to sweet sleep in their clan homes and heal their wounds.

*****

Dugren's training is straining his body and soul, the runes tattooed on the outside forced to draw heavily on the runes inside his soul, decreasing his strength more quickly than before. Now is the time for Dugren to draw deep breaths and rest, let his weary self complete the ragged circle of his being. But he pushes further, pulling up on the rope of strength that draws the bucket full of power from the well of his soul. He fails to see the waning of the deepest, brightest light inside his being fading, the circle of heart runes disintegrating.

Exhausted more than he knows, Dugren throws away the towel inscribed with runes of cleanliness into the bin with the others. He will wake with a sense of emptiness after a dreamless sleep, his unerring focus centered on defeating Jor so that he will not be powerless before his father Daryk ever again, unaware that the greatest danger he faces is not his father, but fear.

*****

Jor enters Abri with eyes of pure white ice, eyes that defy the burning light of greed and death that is in the eyes of other Patryns walking the stony streets. Jor is deep within the Wave, has sensed the death of Dala after the dark assualt of the Dragyns, and knows that his children live still. He feels the pain of loss, breaking rune-bonds and allowing stronger ones to grow. The cirle, never before broken, becomes unbreakable after once breaking.

Oxir walks beside Jor, safe from the denizens of the city that are after her fat purse or fine figure, his powerful quiet presence turning away trouble. Many other Patryns walk the same stony streets, pass the same walls on their way to whatever task has attracted their attention. She smells the scent of death in the streets, even stronger than before, and wonders what darkness could cause the pervasive and pungent scent to worsen.

*****

Daryk muses, mercilessly trying to write the runes that will make the magic and invoke the incredible possibility that he so desires to see supplant his current reality. His lack of inspiration of late leads to a conflagration of frustration, and the runes of his body glow, searching for something to destroy, seeking the threat that is in truth within Daryk himself.

He turns, trains his power on the Dragyn throne, the symbol of the false power he has hated through the times of rue. The sigla ignite the carefully-crafted chair, unweaving the sigla of power and protection inscribed upon its surface and searing the wounded and unprotected wood. Sighing, suddenly Daryk is struck by a realization. Had the sigla been an unbroken circle in the core of the chair rather than solely on the surface, he knows that the throne would have been much more difficult to destroy. The seed is planted in his mind, and he knows what he needs to do to defeat Jor and find the kind of power that can create the heaven he hopes for. His heaven is the opposite of his hell, and for Daryk, hell is other Patryns.

*****

The scent of death is deep in the dark arena. Dugren knows that many have met their ends, their tattooed bodies glowing with power before the final blow, the possibilities for their existence blown out like glowlamps. Dugren knows this because he has given many of them that last blow, watched as the bright light of the runes fade and no longer glow. He has the memories of many deaths, many possibilities created and obliterated in the same arena. Dugren wonders why his whirling thoughts take him to those memories, why they take hold of his soul.

The floor of the the arena is pitted, punctured in many places with scars from battling brothers, daughters, mothers, fathers. There are burn marks, broken shards of shale, strange grooves snaking on the silent floor of the dark arena. This is where Dugren tears the life, the power, from Jor. This is the end for Jor, and a welcome beginning for Degren. This place is the intersection, the nexus, the beach upon which the Wave pitches itself.

*****

Time grinds and winds down as Jor makes his way to the ancient arena. Oxir is at his side, her mind proclaiming the runes of life, trying to provide him with strength. She has agreed to be his witness for the duel between Dugren and Jor, and Oxir fulfills her duty and more. She owes him the life-debt, and while they had never undergone the binding together, the principles of the ritual were strong in her. Her life for his life, her death for his life, her life for his death, and her death for his death. The circle would be complete.

Jor's eyes bore into the old stones, his thoughts caught up in searching for their names, for the possibilities inherent in their essence are perilous to ignore. Time grinds on, and life becomes more likely for Jor. He removes his clothing and moves closer to the center of the circle, seeking its name. The possibilities are shifting on the Wave.

*****

The hint of a haunted smile shifts Daryk's dark facial features, hiding the deadly thoughts behind the wrinkled flesh. Word has arrived, hurrying to him through the Wave, and he knows that Dugren faces his doom. His son will be gone, a life of power extinguished like a lighted candle, blown out gently and without remorse, ending after having served its purpose. The situation was suitable, as it maintained the balance necessary for the Wave's stability. Jor's son, a life of promise, had also been extinguished. Daryk had sent Dragyns to assure Cor's death, because that balance was vital to his plans for the Patryns. He knew that he must avoid the Wave that would crash on him should he upset the balance.

Daryk moved, rue seeping into his thoughts, quickly gone as the runes on the many pages he had used in writing the runes of death for his people. The end he had written on the dark pages was a beginning, the beginning of a world where fighting and dieing would be no more. All that remained was to ensure the one last instance, the fighting and dieing of Dugren and Jor, and the story would be no more.

*****

Cor sings the soft runes of sleep to his sister, easing her gently into the circle of dreams. The sigils on his small young body no longer burn brightly in anticipation of approaching enemies, but the fire that rises from watching the killing of his mother continues to grow in his heart, eating at the already charred soul beneath the calm surface of his curled features. He takes pleasure in the knowledge Jor has given him, feeling delight in his prediction that the Wave will come back and crash upon the shores of the perpetrators with the same force they visited upon others.

Cor wonders where Jor is located on the Wave, hopes that his father is swimming in the brimming waters of life rather than sinking and drinking of death. He knows that there is nothing to be done about Jor, and that there is more to be done about his sister. He writes the runes of protection and death around the sleeping ground he has chosen, sleeping soundly while knowing that he and Cala are bound for a dawn of life.

*****

A shroud of shadows shifts, drifts away from Dugren. His icy eyes follow the form of Jor across the stony floor, note the female form flowing nearby. He focuses his vision, sees the heart-sigil, and knows her name. He did not know her purpose, the thoughts lurking in her mind, grinding the possibilities for his continued life like the sands crushed by the Wave. Dugren's death is growing more probable as the dice sink in the waters of life.

The cloak that covers his taut frame is released, the cloth slipping from the strong shoulders, collecting at the hard, calloused feet. Those feet falter as they move him towards the center of the arena, but he remains afloat as he approaches Jor, ready to engage in the battle for his birthright. The power, a blooming flower waiting for him to take it and show the world its beauty.

*****

Jor senses Dugren's form enter the round arena, perceives the possibilities that his body is generating with a deceptive gentleness. One possibility looms large, the sigil growing in Jor's conceptual matrix, making the outcome obvious. The symbol of power that floats outward on the Wave is a familiar one, the mark of death, dealt by Dugren.

The mark strikes Jor, and its shape changes to that of a life-sigil. He hears Dugren groan with annoyance, then watches him attack once more. The sigils flow faster this time, trying to trap him in a web of fire. Jor calls forth the Wave, and the fire is washed away. Dugren drags out his final weapon, waits for the right moment to use his heart-rune. The sigils fizzle, fading before they can enact any possibility, and Dugren faces his death with an open mouth. Jor strikes, moving with the Wave, using its strength to smash down upon the sigils that maintain the other man's existence, breaking the circle of life.