# The Watcher



## Dirge Eterna (Apr 30, 2007)

Year -4501- The Great Chasm, Vadrefell under construction.

“This is a majestic city, wouldn’t you agree?”

“Yes, my master, it is.”

Araskan Kar’Azul looked over the sweeping expanse of the Great Chasm, at the side of Anphrael, his master. The older elf was a mage, and Araskan his apprentice, though secretly Araskan thought the old mage was less a user of magic then he. The Great Chasm was a massive rent in the earth, only recently discovered, and when the elves established a base on the mainland, they decided on it as suitably defendable. Massive temples and palaces were built into the sides of the Chasm, with markets and merchant districts built atop buttresses and round columns. Elves were everywhere, trading, talking, and moving around on the bridges that connected everything in the Chasm.

Anphrael moved back from the balcony into the three-room building he shared with Araskan, sitting at his desk to continue his work on the Tome of Anphrael, a massive spell book Anphrael insisted would pass to Araskan following Anphrael’s death, or retirement from magic. Araskan sipped a glass of clear water and watched as the old elf scribbled away with a quill, leading his loopy handwriting across the page.

“Master,” said Araskan. Anphrael looked up. 

“Yes, child?” he asked.

“Master, why can we not bring back the dead?”

Anphrael’s eyes took on a sad tone. “You are thinking of your mother, again?”

“The art of Necromancy is possible, child, but if you were to attempt to bring back your dear mother she would not be the woman you knew, nor would the Mages permit it. They would destroy you for the attempt alone.”

Araskan nodded sadly. 

Anphrael knelt down, placing a hand on each of Araskan’s shoulders.

“Do not be afraid to let the dead lie, my apprentice.” He said. Araskan nodded, and Anphrael smiled warmly before returning to his Tome.



-1589, The Great Chasm, Vadrefell, War of Betrayal

“We should have known.”

“There was nothing you could have done.”

“But you, my master. Your foresight, your predictions. You kept this from the Council.”

Anphrael shook his head slowly. “I saw none of this.”

Araskan growled. “You lie.”

The old mage gripped his Tome in one closed hand and a gnarled staff in the other. Araskan was sealed in a suit of silvery armor, a white cloak underneath the plates. A winged helm rested on his head. The sounds of war filtered up from the Chasm. All over Vadrefell, the Elves warred bitterly against the now-revealed Pleasure Cult of Slaanesh.

“My lords!” yelped an elf. He lurched through the door, a cut on his face leaking blood into his helmet.

“What is it, child?” asked Anphrael hurriedly. The elf gasped for breath.

“The Cult has broken into the access tunnels. They retreat from Vadrefell!”

“What about our people?” asked Araskan, pushing ahead of Anphrael. The elf bit his lip.

“We lost many. More then half our people turned to the Cult, and from them we lost another quarter of our fighting strength. We now number less then twenty percent of our original number, and that’s including walking wounded and every elf able to swing a sword.”

Anphrael nodded. “We must depart to Ulthuan.”

“We can’t just leave,” pleaded Araskan. “There are still many left in the city. Wounded. They will not survive the journey.”

“We must save what we can, no?” replied Anphrael.

“We must save what we _can_, my master, not what we want. Our people are wounded, and tired, and hungry. We must stay in Vadrefell, at least until the wounded are healed.”

Anphrael grabbed Araskan around the arm and twisted him so they were facing away from the elf.

“Do as I command.” said Anphrael, growling.

“I am not your protégé anymore, master Magi.” Araskan said lowly. “I do as I feel is right.”

“What you feel is right is wrong. And you are still but a child to me, Araskan.”

Araskan shrugged off the old elf’s hand and turned to the captain. Anphrael looked at him with fury in his eyes. 

“Captain,” said Araskan. “We stay until the last wounded has died or healed.”

The elf nodded and turned away, stepping back down the stairs to relay the order.



Year -54, The Great Chasm, Vadrefell Ruins, Battle for the Abyss.

“You are a fool. I never should have let you get away with your crimes.”

“You wish you hadn’t, now? You knew I was right. And you knew the Cult was evil. And you did _nothing._”

Araskan smashed his armored elbow into Anphrael’s face, sending the old elf flying backwards. Anphrael coughed a little blood and lashed back with a slash of his staff. Araskan rode the blow on his chest and turned, head-butting Anphrael. The elf staggered back, blood pouring from the cut Araskan’s armored helmet had opened on his forehead. 

A vast crash sounded above them as the Fleshtearers breached the gates to Vadrefell, a vast Chaos army smashing through the upper levels. Anphrael had thrown open the door to Araskan’s quarters and declared him personally responsible for the destruction visited on the city.

Anphrael gathered a spear of magic around his fingers and flung it, striking Araskan in the chest and tossing him to the edge of the balcony. The old elf walked up to the edge, gasping.

“You are nothing, Araskan.” Anphrael growled. “You were nothing and you are nothing.”

“Anphrael.” said Araskan. The old elf seemed to hesitate.

“You talk too much.”

Araskan vaulted up the railing and smashed an armored fist into Anphrael’s face, smashing his nose. The elf howled in pain. 

“You are the fool, old man.” growled Araskan, walking slowly towards him. Anphrael scrabbled for his staff, but Araskan stepped on his foot, breaking the elf’s fingers. Anphrael howled.

“You will never unlock the secrets without me.” Anphrael hissed. “Never find out why your mother died.”

Araskan hesitated, and then Anphrael looked as the door smashed inwards. Fleshtearers lurched into the room, and Araskan held up his arms, crackling energy gathering around the tips of his fingers. 

“Better by my hand then yours.” Araskan whispered, a tear gathering in his eye. Dust and chips fell from the ceiling, and Araskan screamed as Vadrefell collapsed into the Deeping Chasm, thousands of elves and ten times that Fleshtearers fell into the Deep, howling. Araskan looked at Anphrael. The old elf looked at his former apprentice.

“What have you done?” he whispered, as dust caked the pair. Araskan rose from the floor where he had fallen, blood matting the pristine white of his cloak.

“Avenging you, my master.” Araskan hissed. He drew a long blade and stabbed Anphrael through the chest. The elf sputtered and coughed more blood.

“You will search for a thousand times a thousand years.” Anphrael gasped. “But you will never find my Tome.”

“That’s a long time. We’ll see about that.” Araskan replied. He twisted the blade, then yanked it free before moving off into the still-falling wreckage, the massive use of magic wracking his body. He howled in pain and despair, and toppled into the Deep.


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## deathbringer (Feb 19, 2009)

Great start
Looking forward to reading more
Im now happy
Dirge is back


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## waltzmelancholy_07 (Sep 30, 2008)

A magnificent genesis to another promising fic...


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## dark angel (Jun 11, 2008)

Great start Dirge


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## Dirge Eterna (Apr 30, 2007)

Thanks guys. Sorry about the delay with these, it's been a hell of a week.
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Year 2502, Great Chasm, Vadrefell Ruins, Discovery of the Deeping Chasm

Araskan cocked his head, sadly surveying the engineer that lay before him on a simple cot. The man was malnourished and thin, pale in the face, but held himself with a weary pride.

“What… what are you?” the man whispered. Araskan didn’t reply, but wrung out a thin cloth and draped it over the man’s forehead. The man coughed and Araskan gave him a sip of water from a cracked goblet. His home was nearly at the base of the Great Chasm, almost eight miles below a city the humans called Nuln, built from scrap masonry and wood into the wall of the Temple of the Moon.

Araskan was surprised at the visitor. Ever since his horrible decision more then three thousand years previously, he had been alone in the Deeping Chasm. He wore his silver armor, trimmed with runes he had inscribed during his long exile, and the winged helm. His features were gone, replaced by an oily blackness that only showed two white eyes. His cloak had blood on it, constantly wet from the magics that he had unleashed. A rune-encrusted skull hung on his belt, next to a long curved sword. His gauntlets were silvery, and the left had a large sapphire set into it that glowed dully. He had a long shield strapped to his back, similarly rune-encrusted.

The engineer coughed, making Araskan turn. 

“Are you the Watcher?” he asked. Araskan cocked his head. 

“You haven’t said a word.” The engineer said weakly. “The old legends tell of a Watcher in the Deep, who watches over Nuln from the deepest places.”

Araskan thought for a moment.

“I suppose I am.” He said. “If those legends passed from the elves, I know I am the Watcher. I do not reject the title, though I have done very little watching over the years.”

His fingers crackled with energy he could now only barely control. The unexpected side-effect of his exertion to destroy Vadrefell had been the blessing and curse of almost untold power, as well as the ability to drain magic from nearby sources to fuel impossibly potent spells. He could only barely contain the magicks, however, and constantly sought a way to keep them in check permanently. He was only partially successful. He could use his powers when he wished, but the nullifying effect he had on magic was totally uncontrollable, as he had seen with Vadrefell’s many magical relics that now lay dead and rusted at the base of the Chasm.

“By Sigmar.” Intoned the engineer. He made a complex gesture with one hand.

Araskan ignored him. “What is the date?”

The engineer blinked slowly, then flipped open a gold-edged chronometer.

“ It’s the 18th day of the year 2502.” He said.

“Three millennia.” Araskan murmured.

“That’s how long you’ve been down here?”

“Longer, before I became what I am now, I was an elf. This is the elven city of Vadrefell, destroyed.”

The engineer coughed a little in his drink. “The what? What could possibly destroy this?”

Araskan closed his eyes and looked away, hearing the voices of ages past.

What have you done?

“I did.” 

“By yourself?”

“My hand was forced, but yes, by my own power.”

The man gasped a little. Araskan had quickly caught on he was too deathly weak to save, but had made him more comfortable in the small shack he called home.

“I know I’m dying.” Said the man. “What happened here?”

“My master hid things from us, from me, and he paid the price too late. Our people fell into ruin, and I destroyed them rather then let the Hordes of Chaos despoil them.”

“What an awful choice.” Said the engineer. Araskan nodded. 

“You have no idea.”

The engineer grasped feebly for a scrap of parchment. Araskan handed it to him, and the engineer wrote on the page.

Stephan Brandt, Engineer, 2461-2502

Jurgen Brandt, 7 Emperor Way, Middenheim

Then he handed the scrap to Araskan, using his other hand to grasp at the elf’s collar.

“Find my son, please.” He said. “Tell him about his father’s last great adventure.”

And then, with a last exhale of breath, he closed his eyes, and died. Araskan carefully unfolded his hands and took the parchment. He picked up the Engineer’s inert body and carried him to the altar of the Temple of the Moon outside, placing the man on the slab of silver and marble. He draped a white sheet over the body, and began to walk to the wall of the Chasm.


Year 2502, Nuln Western Gates, The Watcher’s Escape

“Who’re you?” asked the guard.

“Araskan de’Zulanthis Kar’Azul.” Araskan responded dryly. The guard took on a blank look.

“Who’re you?” he repeated.

“An elven sorcerer who’s going to turn your guts to ash and let you writhe on the ground unless you open the gates, cretin.”

The man chewed agonizingly slowly on an apple, looking Araskan over.

“You really a mage?” he asked finally.

“Yes.” Araskan growled. “Open. The. Gates.”

“Gates aren’t supposed to open until nine bell.” 

“Open them, now. Or else.”

The man took another bite of the apple, spraying Araskan with juices as he talked. 

“It’s illegal to threaten a city guard, sir.”

“I’ll threaten who I like, you incompetent idiot. Now stand aside while I blow them open, as you seem too busy.”

The guard shrugged, obviously unbelieving even in the face of Araskan’s crackling aura.

Araskan sighed, then in a flash of motion grabbed the guard around the neck and tossed him contemptuously over his shoulder with a magically assisted flick, hurling the man into a pig trough down the street. Araskan took a step forward, and built up a blue ball of crackling energy that hissed as the air around it superheated. He slammed it into Nuln’s gates, blowing them open and tearing the upper hinges from their mounts. The crossbar flipped end over end and buried itself three feet into the ground ten yards from the city walls. Araskan brushed a woodchip from his shoulder and walked out of Nuln as a warning bell began to clang.


Year 2502, Great Forest, Six Hours North of Nuln

Araskan sat on a stump, idly watching the birds. A pair of squirrels chased each other around a tree trunk nearby. He picked at a mushroom on the stump. 

“What beauty.” He said to himself. In truth he had not left the Deep since the Fall. The sudden appearance of the variety in the Great Forest amazed him.

He stood up and continued down the misty flagstone road, carefully avoiding stepping on the prodigious amounts of life that bounded and grew around the cracks in the road’s surface.

“Halt, fiend!” howled a voice, a petulant edge in it. Araskan looked up as the sound grated on his ears. A young man in loose plate armor holding a steel blade stood in the road. His hair was long, pulled back in a ponytail, and a blue stocking cap sat atop his head, a flower through the band wrapped around it.

“What do you want?” asked Araskan dully.

“Dressed as you are, you are surely a purveyor of evil deeds throughout these lands! You may be strong, but against the might of Rouyan the Adequate, you will perish!”

Araskan stifled a laugh. “Rouyan the Adequate? I think you need a new title.”

Rouyan made a complex gesture with the blade. “As I suspected! You seek to undermine a true defender of freedom and justice with your biting wit! Draw your sword, scourge!”

Araskan didn’t move. Rouyan began to hop from foot to foot.

“You are afraid, and you should be! I am a defender of all that is cute and fuzzy, and you are neither! Face me honorably and you may be shown mercy, fiend!”

He pointed to the mushroom Araskan had plucked from the stump, still clutched in his gauntlet.

“Aha! You’re stealing, and stealing is evil! Have at you, sir!”

He leapt forwards, and Araskan held out a gauntleted hand, palm towards the man. The sapphire set into his bracer glowed with a fiendish light.

Rouyan howled a high-pitched war cry and slammed into Araskan’s outstretched hand, knocking himself to the ground.

Araskan blinked slowly. Rouyan groaned, a vivid patch on his face where Araskan’s gauntlet had struck.

“I didn’t even get the spell started, fool.” He said to Rouyan. Rouyan didn’t respond, knocked out by the impact.

Araskan reached down and pulled the coin purse from Rouyan’s belt, jingling the coinage inside. 

“Probably shouldn’t carry this much money,” he said to Rouyan’s inert form. “Might knock yourself out and be relieved of it by a dashing, proficient, and well-dressed sorcerer.” 

Rouyan groaned feebly, and Araskan kicked a handful of dirt onto the bumbling hero’s chest.

“You have fun.” He said idly, and moved on.


Year 2502, Reikguard, Dragon Tooth Inn, Ten hours north of Nuln

“What’ll it be, m’lord? Maybe a pint of ale?”

Araskan looked at the portly brewer. 

“Nothing, for me.”

“As yer will, lord. If you need anything you just ask me.”

A half-dozen rough looking men sat around Araskan at the table, a bag of small tokens landing in front of him.

“You play keystones?” asked the leading man. Araskan nodded. Keystones had been his pastime during the long time he had spent in the Deep. The men obviously didn’t know this, looking at each other with greedy expressions.

“Let’s play then. Starting bid at, oh, fifty crowns.”

Fifty crowns was an outrageous sum of money for a game of Keystones, usually played for two or three shillings.

Araksan set the rune-encrusted skull he carried on the table, the silvery sheathing reflecting the dim lights of the pub.

“Twelve hundred crowns at the least.” He said. The man gaped.

“Let’s play?” asked Araskan. The man gulped, and nodded slowly. He moved one of his pieces forward, the pair alternating, and soon Araskan was sure the man was not at his skill level. The gang probably earned their livelihood robbing stupid nobles and merchants of their money via the game.

“Good game, then.” Said Araskan, moving to take the last of the man’s pieces. His friends slapped the man on the back of the head and grumbled as he handed over the money.

“Hold on.” Said the man. 

“Sure.” Said Araskan.

“You cheated.” A sniveling member of the gang said. “I saw you move twice.”

The rest of the gang nodded with an evil round of looks.

“I did not. Your player isn’t as good as he thinks he is.” Said Araskan truthfully.

“No, no.” said the playing member. “Now that I think about it, you did move twice. Hand over the money.”

Araskan rested a hand on the hilt of his sword, though he had no intention of sullying it’s blade with the blood of such unworthy foes.

“So that’s how it’s going to be?” asked the burliest member of the gang, a brute of a man with a bald head and a thick beard.

“Sorry.” Araskan said.

“You won’t be sorry. You’ll be dead!” howled the player. He lunged forwards with a slim dagger, and Araskan pivoted, grabbing the man around the neck. The man desperately tried to slash at his arm, and succeeded in opening several slices in the black shadows that comprised Araskan’s physical form. Bolts of white light shone from the cuts as they healed even as the pair watched.

“What in Sigmar’s name?” gasped the player.

“I think I saw you move twice.” Araskan hissed. The man squirmed and yelped as the other members of the gang ran from the building.

Araskan built up energy around his fist in a flash of light, and the man vanished.

The portly bartender stood up from his hiding place behind the bar.

“M’lord, what did you do to him?” he asked, amazed.

“I teleported him to the prison in Reikguard. It will give the jailer a fascinating project to keep him occupied.”

“Been a while since I had a Wizard here, lordship.” Breathed the man. “It’s an honor.”

Araskan’s mood lightened at the man’s honest demeanor. 

“Sorry about the mess.” He apologized. “How about that ale?”

“Not a problem, lord. Coming right up.”


27th Day Year 2502, three miles south of Middenheim

Araskan whistled, drawing a dozen replies from the birds that orbited his head. He held up a hand, letting a small robin perch on his armored finger.

“What I’ve missed.” He said to the bird. It didn’t reply, but rather cocked its head, looking at him with one beady eye. Araskan took a biscuit the innkeeper had given him and cracked a corner off it, feeding it to the bird. The robin took it in its beak and flapped away.

He passed a great set of ruins, obviously once a fort of some type. A bone extended from under a pile of masonry, a rusted sword still gripped in its fleshless fingers.

Araskan continued on, passing a wooden signpost at a crossroads. He thought about the journey, his few days nervously skirting Aldorf. The city’s Wizards would surely see through him, though he found he could easily trick lesser mortals with a magical disguise. Currently he had the appearance of a traveling merchant, run too fat with a large pack stuffed with spokes and wagon repair tools.

A man rode a horse past him, going the opposite direction. A half-dozen followers trailed the man, some carrying fiendish weapons. A particularly vicious-looking individual had a skull tied to his belt, WITCH carved into the bone. 

Araskan wondered if the witch hunter was a magic user a second before he whipped around, eyes settling on Araskan. The mage’s heart leapt into his throat.

“You dropped this.” Said the Witch Hunter idly. He held out a small, rune-encrusted dagger. Araskan’s second weapon. He usually kept it in his boot sheath.

“So I did.” Araskan replied. The hunter looked him over.

“How does a merchant come to own that? Family heirloom, perhaps?”

“I didn’t steal it.”

“Of course not.”

“I get the feeling you don’t believe me.”

“You get right, sir. Boris. Search him.”

The burly man with the skull on his belt put a hand on Araskan’s shoulder, passing right through his portly disguise and settling on the armored shoulder beneath. The witch hunter’s eyes opened wide and he whipped a sword out, the entire party backing away.

“By Aesir.” Araskan swore. He dropped the disguise, showing the true horror and glory of his form. The Witch Hunter flinched as the oppressive weight of Araskan’s wards stung him. The force was so powerful Araskan was unaware of the magic he was using; merely by being near the man he weakened him.

Boris swept a thick war hammer over his head as he ducked. Araskan lashed out and snapped his leg like a dry stick. The man howled and toppled over. A second man swept his legs out from under him, sending the mage to the ground. Araskan pulled the sword from his belt on the ground, opening the man’s innards. Organs tumbled from the wound as the sword’s magic burned his flesh to ashes. The Witch Hunter vaulted from his mount, his sword deflecting Araskan’s own in a sharp movement.

Araskan stepped forward, his face only a half-inch from the Witch Hunter’s own. The man stumbled backwards, taken aback, and Araskan smacked the closed fist of his gauntlet into the man’s chest.

“Learn to use your sword, child.” Spat the Witch Hunter. “Hold it properly.”

It was an old thing for Araskan. He held the long, curved form of the Sword of Judgment in a reversed grip, like an oversized dagger.

“We’ll see.” Retorted Araskan smoothly. In truth he liked the grip better, it was much easier to block and stab. In a fluid motion he swung to the side, taking a surprise swing at the man’s leg. The sword bit flesh and the spell burned a three-inch wide chunk from his leg. A scream of rage and pain made Araskan look up. Boris crawled to his knees, and swiped the war hammer around. Araskan leapt over it, causing the hammer to smash into the Witch Hunter’s knee. The man tumbled over, and Boris looked suddenly afraid. Araskan gathered a bolt of magic around his fingers and blew Boris into a thousand spinning shards of black glass.

A weasly teenage boy ran at him, holding a dagger. Araskan tripped the boy as he passed and blew him into a tree with a burst of magic, knocking him unconscious. The Witch Hunter was down; blood flowing from the leg Boris had shattered.

“What are you, creature?” hissed the Witch Hunter. “You’re not any Witch kin I know of.”

“That’s a bonus, for my view, at least.” Said Araskan idly. He picked up the Witch Hunter’s hat and wiped his blade off on it before returning it to its sheath.

He placed the hat back on the Witch Hunter’s head. The man sighed.

“I’ve lost. Finish me.”

Araskan looked at him for a second, and then lightly touched the leg Boris had broken. The limb flowed back together like oil, shattered bones creaking as they fused. 

“You…” began the Witch Hunter. Araskan held up a hand.

“No.” he said. “I offer mercy, because you know not what you meddle in. Do not expect this should we meet again.”

He left the man sitting in the road, looking from his leg to Araskan’s departing back with a curious expression on his face.


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## Sniper (Mar 9, 2008)

Nicely written begining to this one Dirge :biggrin:. May as well put in here a congratulations on a great ending to redemption :crazy: anyways, good writing.

Sniper


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## dark angel (Jun 11, 2008)

Dirge one word- MORE!!!!!!!!!


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## deathbringer (Feb 19, 2009)

For some reason I find this cartoony
dont know the adjective 
I can sort of image tom and jerry running around in the background
Still enjoying it though


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## Dirge Eterna (Apr 30, 2007)

It's meant to be a little exaggerated. I wanted a more fun atmosphere. Sorry about the delay, been a whole week, but I'll update tomorrow. A rather unpleasant discussion at Langley has forestalled some judgments I would have rather had now.


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## Dirge Eterna (Apr 30, 2007)

Desperately sorry this is so short, especially after I was gone for so long, but I've not much time at the moment, so here's what I've managed in fifteen minutes of scribbling.
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31st Day, Year 2502, Middenheim

A young man, perhaps twenty-seven at oldest, sat heavily on a stump, whittling a short stick. Curled chips of wood flipped off the knife and floated to the ground, piling at his feet. He wore a set of leather armor, studded with metal plates and components lost to Araskan's eye. A set of magnifying goggles rested on his head. A large building stood behind him, heavy with metal reinforcing and a large smelter chimney that rose like a blackened tooth from the gums of the building. Massive cogs and pumps worked at the side and every thirty seconds the furnace burped, releasing a cloud of bluish, smelly smoke into the air. The Middenheim citizenry and especially the Knights who passed by looked at the building with disdain.

Araskan had no such inhibition. He sidestepped a Knight, the man giving him a startled glance as his disguise shimmered and flowed away, and stepped into the fenced yard around the smithy.

"Jurgen Brandt?" asked Araskan. The young man looked up, causing the magnifyers to drop into his eyes, enlarging them amusingly. 

"Who wants to know?" asked the man. He set the twig on the stump and rose to a stand, looking at Araskan idly, unbowed by the sheer force of the Watcher's wards, something that surprised Araskan.

"Your father is dead." said Araskan suddenly, a moment after cursing himself for breaking the news so roughly. Jurgen blinked slowly.

"So he is?" asked the man. "How did he die?"

"He.. it's a long story." said Araskan. "He found my home, under Nuln, and died of malnourishment. That's the short version, in any case."

"Well, Mister... Erickson, you said? I am sorry, but my father always did want to die discovering something."

"Araskan." corrected the Watcher gently. 

"Araskan." repeated Jurgen. "Thank you for bringing me the news. Would you like to stay? There's room enough. Your trip must have been long from Nuln."

Araskan thought back to the Witch Hunter and the young Rouyan.

"You've not an idea." admitted the Watcher. He shook Jurgen's hand, soft leather to cold starmetals, and let the man lead him inside the forge.


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## Dirge Eterna (Apr 30, 2007)

Here's the rest. Sorry about the hold-up!
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The forge was dimly lit, a single candle guttering and flickering in the corner atop a desk covered in scrawled plans. A large rifle with an incomprehensible mechanism sat against it. Plates of food and half-empty drinks were strewn about. The forge itself was center, a large bellows protruding from the side. The place smelled of ash and metal.

"My father." said Jurgen slowly. He turned a large amulet around in his hands. The jewel hung around his neck.

He turned to Araskan, who saw he was trying hard not to cry.

"He'd think I'm a laughing stock." said Jurgen. "Middenheim. What was I thinking? I'm a _gunsmith_, for Sigmar's sake. Middenheim. What a joke."

"Are you good with guns?" asked Araskan meekly. The man looked at him, dropping the amulet back around his neck.

"Yeah, but what use is it?" he asked grimly. "I can't hit an apple from a battlefield away in a city that hates guns, can I?"

"Would you like to see Ulthuan?" 

"What?"

Araskan blinked slowly. "I'm going to Ulthuan, tracking down something I should have long ago. I've been meaning to, but until your father bade me find you I had not the reason or the encouragement to leave the Deeping Chasm. Would you like to see the Elves' homeland?"

"Well," said Jurgen, taken aback. "Yes.. but I've got to tend the forge, make preparations, pack supplies. Tomorrow, no earlier."

Araskan nodded and flopped down in a stuffed leather chair, propping his armored feet up on a rack of gun butts. The smith sighed and turned, picking up a bucket of water and dousing the forge with a loud hiss of escaping steam. 

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32nd Day Year 2502, Middenheim North Gate.
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Jurgen walked with Araskan, packed surprisingly lightly. Araskan carried nothing but what was on his person, capable of living for months or even years without food or drink thanks to the crackling magics he controlled. Jurgen wore his leather and plate smith's armor, a steel helmet over his head. A small pack was tossed over his shoulder and he carried a long rifle with a dozen fat sights fitted to the top like a cluster of mushrooms.

The guard barely looked over Araskan before waving him through, and flinched at the sight of Jurgen, and waved him past with almost indecent haste. The smith's gear clinked and clattered off of everything. Pots, pans, and armor making a noise like someone dropping an armful of buckets.

"This is quite something." said Jurgen cheerily. He flipped up the visor of his helmet, looking around. "I've heard the Elves keep quite a domain."

"It's quite something." said Araskan. "At least it was, when I was there last."

"You've been there before?"

"I grew up in Tor Cassera, in the south Ulthuan. When I was four my mother died, and I was given over to Anphrael, my former master, who moved to Vadrefell in the Deeping Chasm long before your Empire."

"Before the Empire," breathed Jurgen. "Then you must be..."

"I've lost count." said Araskan. "But I am over six thousand years aged."

"By Sigmar."

They proceeded on in silence, passing through the forests separating them from the coasts. Jurgen eventually grew bored of the walking and played a cheery tune on a pocket flute, the birds whistling and chirping along with him. Araskan walked in silence, a cold aura surrounding him. Frost dripped off his armor. Small motes of lightning crackled between his fingertips. He gritted his teeth, feeling the oily blackness of his features clench in pain. His hands balled into fists and he fell to one knee, discharging a massive bolt into the ground that left it a plate of fused glass, five feet wide and ten thick.

"What? Are you ok!?" asked Jurgen hurriedly. He picked The Watcher up, letting Araskan lean on him.

"I'm fine." coughed Araskan, lying through his teeth. The magic was so potent, so powerful, even he had trouble controlling it. Occasionally it built up to a ridiculous amount, one he could not contain. The effort left him nearly exhausted. 

Jurgen tapped the glass with a careful boot. He whistled in awe.

"That's gonna be twenty spans thick." he said, holding up a grubby hand to compare.

"They usually are." gasped Araskan. He breathed hard, before rising to his feet with an unsteady wobble.

"Are you sure you're fit to travel?" asked Jurgen, sounding slightly disappointed at the fact he wouldn't get to see Ulthuan after all.

"I'm fine." repeated Araskan. "Just a little tired."

They continued on, passing massive oaks with squirrels that chased each other and large owls and birds-of-prey that watched them carefully. A familiar voice scratched against Araskan's ears.

"Fiend! You thought you escaped Rouyan the Adequate?!" yowled Rouyan, brandishing the sword again. He wore a sallet over his head, which Araskan was amused to find was still bruised under the helm. His lip was cracked, but the flower was still stuffed in a leather band wrapped around the brow of the sallet.

"Who's he?" asked Jurgen.

"Comically harmless." replied Araskan. "He's the village idiot in... where do you live?"

Rouyan sniffed petulantly. "I live among the living things of this world, scourge! I see you've recruited another to your evil deeds! Perhaps you can be swayed to the side of light, traveler! Or maybe this Blight has corrupted you too-"

A ball of water, six inches across and as hard as polished marble, smacked into the young man's head, denting the sallet inwards and knocking him out with a wet _crunch_.

Araskan dropped his arm, the gem set into his bracer dulling. The ball of water lost coherence and splashed across Rouyan's chest.

"I swear to the Gods." said Araskan. "Next time I'll make it go right through his head."

Jurgen smiled. "He seems like a bright one."

"Bright in spirit, but not in mind, I hope you mean."

"Well, there's that."

Araskan allowed himself a moment of cheery enjoyment at the man's seemingly endless good mood. 

"Well, that's the important part." he said to Jurgen. "Let's get to Brightholm."


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## dark angel (Jun 11, 2008)

Im liking this great work as always dirge


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## Dirge Eterna (Apr 30, 2007)

Here's my customary cop-out as I leave for another week. Have fun at _home_, guys!
------------------------------------------------------------------------

34th Day, Year 2502, One day sailing from the Port-city Brightholm
--------------------------------------------------------

"We've got a good wind." said Redmaw. He tugged on a rope, making one of the sails creak in response. 

"As long as we can get to Ulthuan quickly, By today, if possible," said Araskan. The merchant nodded.

"Oh, we will," he said.

Araskan paced the deck, a sense of urgency suddenly gripping the elf. He stared into the horizon. A thin, green-grey line was visible through the fog. Redmaw turned, pointing.

"Thar it is," he said slowly. "I'm not landing at Tor Versyr, I'll drop you on the coast."

"Fine with me," replied Araskan. He inspected the armored talons of his gauntlets, flicking a bit of dirt from one. Jurgen stomped from belowdecks, laden down with his equipment.

"Tea?" he asked, procuring a flask. Araskan nodded and took the drink from him, sipping it gratefully. He shivered from the salty wind blowing across the deck of the _Epicarus_, a small fishing trawler he'd requisitioned for the trip. Redmaw hadn't asked questions when Araskan had boosted the ship along with his magics, a fact for which Araskan was profoundly grateful.

Jurgen slung his rifle and sipped from the flask himself before shielding his eyes and looking at the coast.

"Doesn't look like much," he remarked. Araskan shrugged.

"Depends on what you mean by "much"."

Jurgen smiled. "Where're the cities?"

"Inland, a ways," said Redmaw. "Closest's Tor Cassera, maybe two hours inland."

Araskan looked at the merchant.

"I used to trade to the elves," he admitted.

Araskan cringed slightly, hiding his hand under the cloak. Red light seeped from the joints of his gauntlet. The armor peeled away, exposing charred, black bones surrounded by a fiendish red light. His fingers grew to talons, sharp and barbed on the edges. 

Then reality snapped back, his armor suddenly pristine again.

"You OK?" asked Redmaw. 

"I'm fine," said Araskan dryly, rubbing the limb.

"Yeah, alright," said the merchant, not buying it for a moment.

The _Epicarus_ stopped ten feet from shore a half-hour later, Araskan simply stepping off the ship's side to smack into a column of ice. As he walked the water froze until a long path led right to shore. Jurgen attempted to climb down to the ice, slipping and toppling with a strangled yelp into the water. He foundered and then clutched the edge of the ice path, clambering onto it and following Araskan onto the beach, shaking the water from his sleeves.

"Be seein' you?" asked Redmaw from the deck. Araskan shrugged.

"Could be," the elf admitted. The merchant waved and then tugged at the sails, turning the ship around and swiftly sailing out into open water.

A cloaked figure stepped out of cover, holding a long, curved bow in one hand. A set of beautiful arrows protruded from a quiver, each with three eagle's feathers. Belts and pouches covered the slim figure, and a green cloak that looked for all things like a pile of leaves was draped over it's head and body. Only it's eyes, a striking blue-purple in color, showed above a brown facemask tied around it's mouth and nose.

"_Toru'ma? Dagrasil te un Ulthuan?_" rattled off the figure. Jurgen's mouth went a little slack.

"_Aya? Tu en Aya Caelan?_" replied Araskan haltingly. He'd been taken aback by the elf's knowledge of the Vadrefell dialect, a ridiculously obscure version of Elvish now only spoken by the few, ragged survivors of Vadrefell; those who had left before the Fall.

"_I en Aya, Han en tu?_"

Araskan smiled beneath his cowl. "_Aya, I en Araskan, tu Ocular?_"

Aya smiled, her eyes twinkling ever so lightly, and she slung the bow, taking a single acrobatic leap to stand closer to Araskan, examining the runes cut into his armor. She wrapped her arms around him, tucking her hooded head under his chin with a sigh.

"_I anima tu exitus._" she said.

"Can we speak a language I understand?" asked Jurgen, stumbling over the elven tongue. "Not _heebie jeebie animal too_?"

Araskan glared at him for a second, before hesitatingly returning the hug. Aya was his childhood friend from Vadrefell; her father had taken her back to Ulthuan six years before the War of the Betrayal. The last time he'd ventured from Vadrefell to seek a Runesmith he'd learned she had joined a Waywatcher troupe, to the extreme angst of her House. The Tor Cassera Guard bore no great love of the Wood Elves, and to lose one of their own to them seemed a grave insult. She'd returned, ten years older and a hundred wiser, besting even the most dead-eyed and veteran guardsman in archery and fieldcraft, which of course only angered them more.

"I apologize," she said, mostly to Jurgen. "I didn't know you were human."

Jurgen blinked slowly and Araskan bit his lip to keep from laughing. 

"Aya, for being so keen, how did you miss that?" he asked.

"You always attracted odd company," she said, somewhat defensively. "He's not much different."

"Gunsmiths and _High_ Elven Waywatchers," remarked Araskan. "I suppose you're right."

"Why did you come back?" she asked, cocking her head in confusion.

"I need to see Gandon." said Araskan heavily. "It's the old ailment. I need to find my master's Tome."

Aya put a hand to her mouth in shock at the mention of "the old ailment". Jurgen just looked on in bafflement.

"Well, you're lucky you landed where you did." said Aya smoothly, masking her shock. "I was tending my plants when I heard your boat land. For all your powers,"

She prodded Araskan's chestplate for emphasis.

"I was always quieter."

"Plants?" asked Jurgen, perking up at the prospect of food. Aya pulled a leather bag from her waist and rummaged around in it, tossing the gunsmith a fat pear, glistening with moisture. He sat on a rock and crunched into the juicy fruit, appeased.

"Is the way open to Tor Cassera?" asked Araskan, teasing Aya with the traditional traveler's call to the sentries.

"Always for you." she said. "I'd hazard a guess even the Drakonire and all his armies wouldn't stop you from getting to the Palace if you wanted."

Araskan nodded grimly. "You'd be right."

------------------------------------------------------------------------

35th Day, Year 2502, Tor Cassera Palace District
-----------------------------------------------

"What house is that?" asked Araskan, pointing to a large elven House with a massive aerie built into it's top. 

"It's House Aeidael," explained Aya, still clad in her war gear. She'd slept in the tree outside House Devyssre for the night, Araskan accepting a room for himself and Jurgen. "They've become rather attached to dragons since the Betrayal. I hear the Drakonire, their current ruler- I think that's his personal title, actually- owns a rather magnificent Black, though I've yet to see either Dragon or Rider."

A young Elf walked up to the door of Aeidael, wearing slim black armor, a helmet clutched under his arm, the other occupied by a meat pie he was chewing on. A black sword shivered at his belt. He fumbled for the key and dropped it. Araskan picked the key up and handed it to the elf, taking his helmet while the elf unlocked the door. 

"Thank you." said the elf slowly. He seemed to be concentrating on another conversation only he could hear. He took his helmet from Araskan and nodded a thanks.

"Althalos!" yelled a voice from inside. The elf licked his lips and hurried inside.

"They train toddlers to fight now, too?" asked Araskan as they continued down the street. 

"Not all of us are dusty bones like you," replied Aya. "You should see the Glade Guard in Athel Loren."

"Sorry. I just find the prospect of children fighting for me a little frightening."

"He looked of age to me."

"Everyone looks of age to you."

Aya smirked. "Oh, that's a low shot."

"Not as low as your standards."

"Might want to curb that tongue before Gandon's guard chief pulls it out."

Araskan chuckled to himself. Jurgen walked with them at a slight distance, the Elves on the streets gawking at him as he wandered along, oblivious to their stares.

A group of Elves in winged helmets and carrying glittering spears stood in front of a pair of marble gates depicting a Pheonix Lord battling a warrior sealed in black, spiked armor. 

"Name and purpose," droned the first guard. Araskan opened his mouth, and Aya cut him off.

"Aya Caelon, Araskan the Watcher, and Jurgen Brandt of Middenheim to see Pheonix Lord Gandon, our purpose is our own."

"Aya? The Wooden?" hissed the rearmost guard. Aya seemed to flinch and a long knife was embedded three inches into the ground a hairsbreadth from the guard's boot.

"Yes," she said. "Now if you'd be so kind?"

The leading guard smirked at the one who'd spoken and cranked open the gates. Aya pulled her knife from the ground and shot a scathing look at the elf before leading them up the wide stone steps to Gandon's palace.

They entered the Phoenix Hall, Aya taking Jurgen by the arm. 

"We'll go to the Great Library." she said. "I can translate some texts on forging for your friend."

Jurgen nodded happily, shrugging off the Waywatcher's grip. Araskan patted him on the shoulder and wandered off towards the Magus wing of the palace, passing grimly-armored soldiers.

Araskan walked down the marble hallways, the heavy armor and winged helm seeming to float rather then weigh heavily on him like the Phoenix Guard that populated the halls of the palace.

"I was told I would not be disturbed." said Gandon Kar'Cassera.

Araskan didn't say anything, simply standing in the doorway. The Lord of Tor Cassera kept his back to him.

"Not by servants. Not by soldiers." said Gandon.

A dozen small balls of energy orbited Araskan's head, excess magical energy collecting from the room's many implements. Gandon's brow furrowed as the device he was working on stuttered and died as the magic was drained away.

"What about very, very old friends?" asked Araskan slowly. Gandon turned, a look of stupefied wonder coming to his face.

"By the Gods." he whispered. "Is that really you?"

Araskan nodded. "The pain and suffering of Vadrefell have changed me. I am no longer Elven... in a sense."

"Araskan Kar'Azul." said Gandon. "I haven't seen you in nearly an age."

"And now I appear in your city. Curious, isn't it?" asked Araskan.

Gandon stepped down from his workbench carefully, maneuvering around massive implements and strange devices that crackled with power.

"I know what happened at Vadrefell, what you were forced to do. You have my eternal sorrow, my old friend."

"I do not want your sorrow." growled Araskan, the mention of Vadrefell lighting his temper.

"Then what is it that you want?" asked Gandon. "You are welcome to stay in Tor Cassera. House Aeidael is almost rebuilt from the Betrayal. They lost many, and will have room to spare."

"I'm not a tourist." said Araskan. A thin rivulet of energy streaked down his limbs.

"My home will always be Vadrefell, no matter it's despoiled state. I wish to alter reality."

Gandon looked at him, confused. "There is no magic or technology in this world or the next that will change what happened at Vadrefell, my friend, no matter how we wish it."

Araskan lunged forwards, extending a gauntleted hand. Invisible forces picked up Gandon and began to choke him, his feet hovering a foot above the ground as the impossible strength of Araskan's magics shattered his wards.

"What do you know of Vadrefell?!" roared Araskan. "Did you watch the Fall? Did you see the Great Betrayal? The Chaos army? Did you see my mentor do nothing!? And did you see me, as I made the choice that haunts me to this day?!"

Gandon coughed and wheezed as Araskan dropped him to the floor.

"I am sorry." choked Galdor. "I did not know the depth of your sorrow."

"The Council didn't either. I'm sorry, my friend. My temper got the better of me."

"Think nothing of it... I was too blunt. I will help you as best I can. What do you seek in Tor Cassera?"

Gandon slowly got to his feet, a hand feeling his bruised neck. Araskan flicked a bead of magic lazily towards him, striking his neck and healing it as he watched.

"I seek a book, written by my master before his... untimely end."

"You're looking for your master's secrets? The Tome of Anphrael?" breathed Gandon.

"I am," replied Araskan. He shifted his weight slightly, making his armor and weapons jingle as they rang together. "I have searched the ruins of Vadrefell for near two ages, and I now believe that cretin hid it before the Fall on purpose, to keep his secrets from me. He knew what was going to happen. He had the gift of foresight, and yet he still did nothing."

Gandon nodded sadly. "It is not our right to alter the future."

Araskan glared at the guards moving towards him, and they cringed at his stare.

"It is every being's right to alter the future." said Araskan. Gandon sighed.

"Well, if it is information you seek, I have it for you." he said. "Spend the day in the Vaults beneath the palace. The great Records are there. If Anphrael did hide his greatest work, he will have entered it in the Records."

"Thank you, my friend." said Araskan. Gandon nodded, and watched as he turned and left the Magnus wing. The devices and contraptions around the room sprang to life as the oppresive weight of Araskan's spells traveled with him.

The captain of the Phoenix Guard approached warily.

"My lord?" he asked. "What is your will?"

Gandon looked at the empty doorway, thinking.

"Leave him be." said the Lord. "He is alone in his sorrow. Make arrangements with House Aeidael. They've room to give him and his party. I'm sure he brought some band of eccentrics with him."

"By your word, lord."


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## waltzmelancholy_07 (Sep 30, 2008)

Dirge... Is there any chance that the Drakonire is who I think it is?... Excited for the next installment...:victory:


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## Iron Corsair (Nov 5, 2008)

Great job, Dirge! It's a really great story.


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