There Will Come A Dawn

[Esplandia]

OOC Note: This thread will be in the vein of @Prydania 's For the King, to Valhalla thread. I am using the concept with his permission, so please check his work out. Please enjoy!



15 July 2005
3:45 pm
Bravondkraj, Arrandal

Dust, ash, blood. Gaelen Marishkov could smell it all. Where once a grand city had stood there were only ruins. The sounds and the smells threatened to overwhelm him, overwhelm his heightened senses.

He could hear it all, the sounds of the wounded and dying, the wails of the survivors looking for friends and family; banshees stumbling in shock through the smoke and the fires. All of the sensations, the fear and anger, crashed down upon him, washing over him, burning through him.

He stood among the ruined courtyard. What remained of the palace burned around him, fires raging in the skeleton of the towers of Aureljus, the Great Hall now a smoldering heap of cracked and blackened stones from which dark clouds of ash rose up into the sky. It was all mostly rubble, smoldering piles of ash, only a skeleton of walls and empty window sills. A large doorway stood alone, the walls around it gone, the stone arch having survived the bombing. Elsewhere a winding stairwell curved around and up three flights before ending in cracked stone, the floor it once led to now gone, part of the pile of rubble below.

I’m too late, he thought, and the wolf within him, always ready to surface at his call, rose up on its own and he let out a painful and ashamed howl. “Arrr-ooooooooo!”

But his howl was quiet, muffled, drowned out by the cries and chaos around him, the pain and the suffering. The Crimson Shroud had made their move, and now Bravondkraj was burning.

Damn you, Izakaya, Gaelen thought. He clenched his fists in anger, anger at her, but mostly anger at himself.

He let the rage burn inside him, as he scrambled through the broken remains of the Palat Roz. He dug at the rubble, pulling out bodies whenever he saw a hand or a foot sticking out. When he smelled someone he’d dig deeper, tearing his hands bloody as he dug. But he found no one alive.

A shadow loomed up in the haze, and then a man stepped out of the smoke. Blood flowed from a deep gash in his head. He wore a singed and bloody uniform of the Royal Hussars. Gaelen stopped him as he stumbled past, grabbing the man by the shoulders. “The Krolzon!* Have you seen the Krolzon?” But the hussar just stared past him blankly. Not even a fierce shake brought him out of his daze.

Galen pushed him to the side and climbed up and over a pile of rubble. He found himself right by the broken stairway he’d seen before. He sat down on the steps, the full weight of what had happened finally settling into his realization, and he wept.

He couldn’t help but feel that all this destruction was his fault. He’d known the Shroud was making plans. He knew they were preparing a massive attack. Iskaya had even told him plans were in motion. And he’d been angry at humanity for so long that for a moment, he was going to let it happen. And now it had, and his indecision had likely cost the royal family their lives.

Head in hands he thought of Nastazja, her beautiful face, and wondered would she look at him with contempt if she knew he was such a coward. He had stopped crying, the tears being replaced once again with rage.

And then he heard a quiet little voice call out, “Hello?”

He dropped his hands away from his face, surprised, thinking he’d imagined it. Then the voice came again. “Help me!”

It was coming from below the stairs. He dug into the rubble, pulling broken stone and cracked wood away. There, huddled beneath the stairs he found her. She was covered in gray dust, her eyes wide with fright. The dust had turned black where tears had run down her cheeks. Her dark hair was wild, and small bits of brick were caught up in it.

He pulled her out and she clung tightly to him. He could feel her trembling in his arms. His heightened sense of smell let him know who she was, a smell so close to her father's. “It’s alright, Jadzia,” he said, stroking her hair to calm her. “It’s alright, everything’s alright.”

.....................
*Krolzon = King’s Consort

---

Anakin's Betrayal -- John Williams

 

[Esplandia]

18 March 2013
5:09 am
Dziwdroga, Arrandal
215 km east of Krukskala

“There,” Nikolas Valkiric whispered, pointing out over the open meadow. The first light of morning was still a far off glow behind the mountains, but just enough to illuminate the whole snowy landscape. “There by the treeline. Look just left of that old oak. Do you see it?”

Jadzia panned her rifle to the left, tacing the treeline from the oak tree. She was freezing, splayed out in the snow, but she controlled her urge to shiver, taking warmth from the Grand Marshal who was laying there next to her. As she shifted the rifle left she spotted it in her scope, a massive buck. He was meandering northward, oblivious to the two humans laying prone less than thirty meters away.

“I see it,” she whispered back, sighting up the buck.

“Remember what I taught you,” Valkiric reassured her, placing a calming hand on her back.

She took a deep breath, filling her lungs, and then held it. Carefully she squeezed the trigger, keeping the spot on the buck where the heart would be right in the crosshairs of the scope. The rifle fired, kicking back into her shoulder as she exhaled. The buck darted away, bounding through the snow and disappearing into the thick woods along the ridge.

“I missed,” she groaned. She lowered the rifle down to rest on her forearm, making sure to keep the barrel up out of the snow.

Valkiric pushed himself up into a crouch and used a beat up pair of binoculars to look at where the buck had been. He followed the deers trail into the woods. “You may have still hit it,” he said, rising to his feet.

He helped Jadzia up to, taking the rifle from her and slinging it over his shoulder. ‘I should have killed it,” she argued as they made their way towards the deals trail. “It was right in my sights.”

Valkiric put a hand on the ten-year olds shoulder. “Everyone misses their first shot,” he assured her.

“Really?” she asked, still upset about her failure.

“Everyone,” he repeated. “It took me a dozen tries before I killed my first deer. My father had almost given up hope on me becoming a huntsman.”

She smiled, and it seemed her face brightened up in the gloomy light of predawn. Valkiric thought back to taking his son out on his first hunt. Mikaelos had cried when he’d missed. At first he’d thought it was because his son was worried he’d disappointed his father. But that hadn’t been the case. Still blubbering his son had confessed to missing on purpose, not wanting to kill the poor defenseless beast. So Valkiric had taken him home and they’d enjoyed warm sweetened goat’s milk by the fire instead.

The truth, Valkiric had realized that day, was that everyone missed their first time because it was hard to actually kill something. He rubbed Jadzia’s head, messing up her Czalpek*, as he fondly thought about his son.

“Hey!” she protested, fixing the hat on her head. She took off at a trot, which looked more like it was half jumping and half swimming through the snow. He let her get ahead of him, but quickened his pace to keep up.

The dear’s trail cut a perfect path in the new fallen snow. Valkiric scanned around as they followed it northward. He was looking for blood, which would stick out in the snow, dark against the white. But there was nothing. They followed the path right up to the edge of the woods, but he hadn’t seen anything by that point, so they wouldn’t see anything in the shadows of the trees.

So he and Jadzia turned back, following their path back towards the cabin. At first she’d protested, wanting to try again. “That gunshot probably scared off most of the wildlife anyway,” he explained to her. “We won’t see anything else.” So she hung her head as they trudged back. But she was still young, and her spirits rose as the sun peeked over the mountains.

As the cabin came into view she was already packing snowballs and tossing them at trees and rocks they passed. Smoke rose from the stone chimney of the cabin, welcoming them back from their hunt. The wooden fence which surrounded the farm was buried in snow, only the tops of the post poking out.

Kazper, the old man who’d so kindly let them winter in his home, was already busy about the place. He was shoveling snow away from the barn door so he could get inside to feed his cow. Two other men, Valkiric’s Dawnguard, were also helping out. One was shoveling walkways from the cabin to the different outbuildings. The other was tossing feed out for the chickens, which were all light enough to walk atop the snow.

Valkiric was wondering where the last of their group was when Peter Artois stepped out of the outhouse at the farside of the farm. Of all the them, he was the most out of place. Way too skinny and bookish to be among hardened soldiers. But he served his purpose as Jadzia’s tutor, and for that he was way over qualified. An Arrandal born Callisean, his father had been chamberlain to the late King Bajoras, and now he was to educate the child of his father’s ward. He was also a very cheery man, and adored the young monarch.

Still dressed only in his thermal underwear, Peter saw the Grand Marshal and the young King returning and he waved excitedly, rushing over to greet them as they passed through the front gate.

“How was your hunt, your highness?” he asked Jadzia.

She just shrugged, already over her previous gloom. “I missed a deer,” she stated matter-of-factly. “But everyone misses their first time.”

“She did great anyway,” Valkiric assured the tutor. “Now why don’t you take her inside to warm up and get some breakfast.”

Peter nodded enthusiastically. “Miss Azamric made sausage and eggs. And there’s also muffins.”

Valkiric watched him and the girl go, disappearing through the low door of the cabin. He needed to talk with the old man, so he made his way over to the barn. Kazpar Azmaric was finishing up clearing away the snow from the barn as the Grand Marshal approached.

“No venison tonight, then?” the old man asked in the dry way that country folk had, so you could never tell if they were being friendly or not.

“I’ll take her out again tomorrow,” he replied, trying to match the dry tone but probably failing.

“A bit young to be teaching her to hunt.”

Valkiric gave a dismissive shrug. “I was younger,” he said. He wasn’t going to argue with the man.

Kazpar must have felt the same way. “It’s your decision on how you be raising her.”

Valkiric decided to address the real reason he’d come over. No point in circling around the issue. “This snow will delay our departure. I had hoped we’d seen the last of winter. But I can’t risk crossing the Capasheans if there’s a chance to get hit by another storm.”

The old man just gave Valkiric a stoic look, then spat out some chew onto the ground. “Alright then,” he said.

Valkiric dug into his coat pocket and pulled out a single silver sigil. The surface was engraved with the eight point star of the Azure Dawn. “Just give this to any Prior of a chapterhouse and they’ll provide you with provisions. Or monetary compensation. Whatever you need.”

Kazpar made no move to take the sigil. “You protect our King,” he said, taking a quick glance towards the cabin. “You don’t let them Vrykozlak** harm her. That’s payment enough.”

Valkiric put the sigil back in his pocket and then shook the old man’s hand in gratitude.

---

Simple Man (Acoustic) -- Shinedown

---

*Czalpek = A traditional Arrandi hat made from beaver or ermine
**Vrykozlak = Arrandi word for Vampire

 

[Esplandia]

OOC: Written with @Nogori approval

9th October 2015
2:09 pm
Bergum, Maloria

Amira tied her hair back, carefully forming a perfect bow with the green silk. She then meticulously made a simple braid. She went carefully, but not slow, her old hands weaving on muscle memory. She could feel the ache in her fingers, age catching up with her. She ignored it as the part of her the pain had become. She finished the braid and tied it off with another green bow.

She checked her work in the mirror, smiling to see that she hadn’t lost her touch. Every strand of hair was neatly weaves into the braid. She stood up, feeling the familiar grind in her knees without consciously noticing, and gathered her hand bag up.

She had a charity event to get to, and she wanted to arrive early to help set up. It was also a good chance to fraternize with other philanthropists, and just to talk with other people.


As she headed for the door out of her room there came a knock. “Ma’am, you have a visitor,” her lady, Lidewij, called through.

She opened the door, startling the younger woman who hadn’t expected the door to be answered so quickly. “Who is it?” she asked, annoyed that she would be delayed leaving.

“The Emperor, ma’am,” she said. “Your father,” she added, nervously.

She almost said something rude, but held her tongue. No point in taking out her irritation on a loyal woman, like Lidewij, who was just doing her job.

Alexander Severyn, Emperor of Maloria, was standing in the front hall, holding his driving cap in his hand, an envelope sticking out beneath it. He was dressed in hunting trousers and a beige windbreaker.

“Father,” she said curtly, but not without affection. “You rarely visit unannounced.” She started down the stairs to meet him.

“There is word from Arrandal,” he answered. The way he said it startled her. His voice cracked with emotion, but there was also a strange hopefulness in his words.

“What of it?” she asked, stepping off the last step and crossing the marble floor of the hall. “That wretched land swallowed up my son and my grandchildren.” There was no venom in what she said, just a sad weariness. She had, in her own way, made peace with her loss.

“Perhaps not,” her father replied. He took the envelope out from under the cap and passed it to her.

The envelope was already opened. It was addressed to her father, but the broken seal bore the arms of the Calagvic-Valterens. She took the letter out, reading it.

Dearest Great-Grandfather,

Three months ago the civil war which had long ravaged my realm of Arrandal came to an end. Our enemies are defeated. While there is still much devastation and hardship, our people are strong and already have started to rebuild.

For the sake of our future my survival was hidden, kept a secret so my enemies would not know I still lived. But now, with peace returned, I may at last declare to you I live!

While I shall soon inform the rest of the world in advance of my coronation, I ask for this news to be kept secret yet for a little longer. I also formally ask you to travel to Bravondy so that we can at long last be reunited.

Your Great-Grandaughter,
Jadzia Serafina Agnieshka
King of Arrandal

She read the letter again, her hands trembling. Could it be? She dared not hope. She had hoped for so long, only to be disappointed. This was a cruel trick. “It can’t be real,” she said.

Alexander reaches out, taking the letter from her. He folded it back up carefully, gently, like it was a holy relic. “The part about the war being over seems true at least. We have been contacted by representatives of an Arrandalian provisional government. And the Azure Dawn have verified with their own people that the fighting is over.”

“Could it be possible? Could she really have survived.”

“There is only one way to truly be sure. Will you travel to Arrandal with me?”

Amira nodded, her eyes welling up with tears. Her father embraced her. His arms were strong around her, despite his age. She knew he wouldn’t cry, but he held her while she did. “Please let it be true,” she said, both a prayer and a plea. She couldn’t stand it if it turned out to be false hope. “Let it be true.”

---

Amazing Grace - Judy Collins

 

[Esplandia]

17 December, 1990
8:27 am
Wyzkruzyz, Arrandal

She considered herself a civilized person, but watching the life drain away from someone as she crushed the air out of their throats also left her with a giddy sensation of power. She squeezed firmly, and they fought to rip her hands away, their struggles growing weaker, until all they could do was stare up into her eyes.

When the last bit of life had faded, she released her grip. His body fell unceremoniously to the floor with a sickening thud.

The eyes of his family, his servants, stared back at her in terror. She barely noticed them. They were little more than cattle. The bodies of his guards lay lifeless on the floor, mangled and broken. Two dozen vampires standing over them, blood drying on their mouths from the feeding.

A child began to cry. At last, she looked away from the corpse of the man she’d just killed. Her eyes darted up to take stock at last of those around her.

“This is the price of betraying the Crimson Shroud,” she said, her melodious voice rising above the sobs and whispers of the castle’s inhabitants. “You think that because the human king has won the recent battles that your oaths of servitude may be set aside?”

She let the question linger in the air. She savored the terror. “Count Azmolwy did not keep the faith. And the Shroud could not let that stand.” She raised her hands to either side, as if she was a priest pleading for the souls of sinners. But there was no mercy to be found here, no absolution. “So you will all spend the rest of your pathetic miserable lives as thralls. You will toil away your lives so that we, the masters of humanity, can bring a new age to the earth.”

And so her vampire followers began leading the humans out. They would be put in chains and dragged away to Zymrokgrota, where they’d slave away in the gloomy tunnels beneath the earth until at last they’d perish from exhaustion. She did not watch them go.

“The King will not let this action go unpunished.”

She did not even look at the man who spoke, knowing him by the voice and the petulant superiority that came with aristocratic blood.

“Bajoras is a weak child,” she said coolly. “He will send his military and we will feed on their corpses.”

Mirek Askavos laughed derisively. “That kind of thinking is what led to our defeat by his father. We lost half our strength…”

She spun to face him so fast, her cold face masked with a calm fury, that he took a step back in fear. Yet he still maintained the arrogant upturn of his nose that had been bred into him. She had no time for this sniveling welp. “Who do you take me for? That old fat fool and his two thousand years of military experience?” She laughed at the mere thought of the old commander of the Shroud’s armies. “I am older than he was. I have watched countless empires rise and fall. He did nothing but get himself beheaded by a Dawnguard squire. But now I command our forces. Unless you wish to challenge me?”

He held his gaze for a second. But then true fear entered his eyes, and he dropped his gaze to the floor. “No,” he answered.

“‘No’ what?” she pressed.

“No, my lady.”

“Bajoras will send his forces,” she said, returning to her typical stoic demeanor. “He will expend his forces trying to take this castle. And we will use this opportunity to bleed his forces, and that of the Azure Dawn. I will do what no other vampire has ever done. I will bring these troublesome Arrand princes to their knees. And they will never forget the name, Iskaya Bathory.”

---

Killing in The Name - Rage Against the Machine

 

[Esplandia]

Bravondy, 2007
- Aszard Krynzik

We ate the rats we caught among the old market stalls
then seasoned them with rosemary and parsley we picked from the overgrown gardens
of the Palat Roz
and when night came we'd barricade ourselves in our houses
sleep coming uneasily
our dreams disturbed
and then wake in the morning to see who had been killed in the night
their doors broken down, their bodies
bloody and bite marks on their necks

We'd lament their fate, curse god for our lot
and then divide their belongings
among ourselves

 

[Esplandia]

January 21, 2015
4:17pm
Szepsfel, Arrandal

They stopped near the ruins of a church. Its roof, and the arches that had once held it up, had collapsed long ago. Only stone walls and crumbling belfry sticking out of the deep snow remained.

Valkiric called for a halt to rest the horses and the troops spread out. Some taking defensive positions, others moving out to secure and patrol. The rest shoveled snow away from the ancient walls and sat against it, taking what little protection they could find from the storm.

Jadzia got down off her horse and immediately sank to mid-thigh. A Royal Hussar came over and helped her over near the cracked archway of the ancient door. She was offered a seat between two burly Kranznikotti highlanders. They’d set up a camp stove and were heating up some tea. They offered her the cup and she drank gratefully.

They both smiled at her and one sang an old mountain song in his harsher accent. She knew they were trying to keep her spirits up, but even she could see the exhaustion on their faces. They had hoped to make it over the pass, but this storm had come out of nowhere and it was becoming more and more obvious they wouldn’t make it over the tip before their way was blocked.

Milosh Andraski found her there. He was a grizzled man, with numerous scars, one across his face from temple to chin. His traditional Czupryna, a halfshaven head hairstyle, was unkempt, and with the hair coming back where he would have kept shaven. He was only a lieutenant, but also the highest ranking Hussar left.

“Your majesty,” he said gruffly. “Might I have a word.”

He waded out a ways into the snow, away from the rest of the men. She followed in the tracks he’d made. “Valkiric’s scouts have confirmed our pursuers still follow,” he continued after they’d gone far enough from prying ears.

She took the news without reaction. But she felt her heart beating faster at the news. They’d known the Black Duchess would come after her. And now with the snow they were caught between the forces of the Shroud and the mountains.

Though she was king, no one expected her to lead. But she’d been among soldiers, cavalrymen, for so long, she had learned to follow orders like one. And Andraski had recognized her experience and made him his second, though she suspected Valkiric had likely been behind the initial suggestion. The other Hussars had taken the appointment of a fourteen year old girl in stride. She was the King after all.

“What are his orders?” she asked.

“He thinks this is as good a spot to defend as any. So he’ll order defensive preparations soon.” He looked around at the church ruins and the old church yard around it, it’s rock walls now only visible as small bumps in the snow. What the position had going for it was that it was on a hill overlooking the road coming up the mountain, with a thick wooded ridgeland behind. “We will take our Hussars further up the road past the ridge, along with the rest of the horses, and defend the retreat if it comes to that.”

And flee with me into the pass if we are overrun, she thought. She said nothing though. She hated being protected when she knew how to fight as well as anyone. But then they were here because of her. To cross the mountains and reach Aszenhal and safety. And if she died here, then the last five years of struggle would mean nothing.

So she took her orders silently and relayed them to the rest of the Hussars. The orders went out and the column erupted into activity as they prepared to defend themselves.

---

The radio operator passed the handset to Commander Valkiric. “Valkiric here. Go ahead, Scout One” he said.

A statically reply came back. “We have enemy contact. Looks like at least one regiment, mostly horsemen.”

“Any sign of heavy weaponry?” He released the mic and awaited the reply, mentally praying for good news.

“No, Sir. They look like they’re traveling light. Maybe a couple of RPGs and mortars, but I cant be sure.”

Valkiric closed his eyes and thanked God for their fortune. At least the snow had leveled things a bit for them. “Copy, Scout One, pull back to first position and await further orders.” He passed the radio back and then hollered for his officers.

His second, a tall blond man named Saul Packard, as well as submarshal Wojtek hurried over to him.

“The enemy is pushing towards us,” he stated flatly. “A regiment of horsemen, maybe more. Mostly Tarkjans, or at least that’s my guess.”

“Any vampires?” Packard asked in his thick accent.

Valkiric shrugged. “None confirmed, but we have to assume there’s a couple.”

“Do you think she’s with them?” Wojtek asked.

Alvydas stole a glance towards the road below, contemplating the question. Everything depended on that being the case. “I do,” he said at last. “We’ve dealt out too many humiliations, made too many daring escapes. This time she’ll lead personally.”

The three men exchanged knowing glances. Packard gave them both a nod and then hurried to place his few heavy machine guns to cover the approach.

“She’s going to go after Jadzia,” Wojtek said once the two were alone.

“That’s why I put her at the back with the Hussars,” Valkiric answered.

But the answer didn’t satisfy the younger Dawnguard. “She will personally go after Jadzia,” he reiterated.

“That’s why I put her at the back with the Hussars,” Valkiric repeated.

Wojtek raised an eyebrow. “She’s bait?” Valkiric noted the accusation in his voice.

The Grand Marshal said nothing and returned Wojtek’s gaze unflinching. A moment of silent judgement passed. Wojtek was the closest thing to a friend the old man still had, but he refused to feel ashamed. This war had to end and he was to end it here. “The Wyvern’s men have been stationed in these hills, waiting for us to lead the Duchess into this trap.”

“I’m going to assume we didn’t stop here by chance then.”

Valkiric didn’t answer. “You have your orders submarshal,” he said, and stormed off to oversee preparations.

---

Jadzia sat on her horse, highland pines towering over her. The snow had slowed, but not yet stopped. They waited as they listened to the distant fighting. She could hear mortars flying through the air, machine guns, and the screaming of men.

She kept one hand on her reins, another on her pistol, ready to draw. The cracks of gunfire echoed among the hills, the snow doing nothing to muffle the sound. She looked around at the Hussars protecting her. They calmly sat on their mounts listening. A few were on foot, leaning casually against trees, waiting. Until one of them snapped his attention to the dense forest.

He held up his hand and their whole party went tense. Andraski dismounted and hurried over. A quick conversation in whispers happened, and then he rushed back.

“Ready your weapons,” he ordered. “There’s movement in the woods.”

Jadzia drew her pistol. Half of their mounted forces dismounted, readying rifles and moving to take up positions in the trees. Those that remained mounted closed in around Jadzia. She listened, but could only hear the creaking of the pines. She peered at the woodlands, trying to see anything. All she saw was falling snow.

And then with a loud whistle, mortars crashed down near them, blasting the air and trees. In that moment chaos erupted. Out of the trees men charged, screaming. They wore war paint, and their howl was beatial. These were Tarkjans, the people of western Granzludgrad.

The Hussars opened fire, and the first wave of Tarkjans fell. But the next came, and they fired as they ran. Jadzia felt a bullet whiz through the air past her.

And then the Tarkjans were among them. The hussars drew sabers, and soon there was hand to hand fighting. Jadzia spurred her horse forward and charged into the fray, her mounted Hussars following. She leveled her pistol at a charging Tarkjan and shot him square in the chest.

Her charge scattered the enemy, but already another charge was coming out of the trees to their flank. More gunfire erupted around them. She saw one of her mounted hussars get hit and fall off his horse. She whirled her own mount around, screaming for her hussars to gather on her, and then she charged again.

She could hear Andraski shouting, and from the corner of her eye saw him pointing at something off among the trees. But she was already past him and crashing into the charging Tarkjans. She shot two down and then was past them. She whirled around and found herself alone. Her mounted comrades hadn’t followed her charge.

She spurred her horse on, ready to race back. Then from out of the snow another mounted figure emerged. A tall woman with pale skin and dark hair. Her eyes shone bright with fury and a wicked grin lit up her face. It was Iskaya Bathory, the Black Duchess. Another vampire ran swiftly through the snow to catch up.

“Jadzia!” she roared. “I have you at last!”

And then she charged, sword in hand, followed by the trailing vampire. Jadzia lifted her pistol and fired twice. Both bullets hit the woman in the chest but she rushed on unfazed.

Jadzia pulled on the reins to flee knowing it was too late. Instead her horse reared up and took the sword strike. Jadzia was thrown from her mount, sinking into the deep snow. Snill, she rolled away out of instinct as the horse fell where she would have been. It kicked out its legs, wounded in the snow.

Jadzia rose to her feet as the second vampire grabbed hold of her. Jadzia fought back, her pistol being knocked from her grip and disappearing into the snow. She drew her dagger, an argent silver blade, and stabbed the vampire repeatedly. Warm blood spattered over Jadzia as the vampire howled in pain. It released its grip on her and she plunged the blade right into the vampire's chest, deep into the heart. It fell lifeless into the snow.


Iskaya had brought her mount around and now leapt from her horse, landing gracefully in the deep snow. And she came for her quarry, wading through the drift.

Jadzia wouldn’t flee. She readied the dagger and moved into a fighting stance. It was then that she noticed more cavalry coming through the trees from behind Iskaya. These weren’t Tarkjans though, nor were they Hussars. They wore purple and black uniform uniforms, emblazoned with the Wyvern of house Drakoviac’s palace guard. And among them, running on all fours, was the hairy form of a werewolf.

When Iskaya heard the noise she turned to face the new approaching threat. The werewolf reached her and with its mighty jaws grabbed hold of the vampire. She screeched in pain, but the wolf only cocked its neck, and then flung her against the trunk of a tree.

The cavalry charged past, relieving the hussars from the Tarkjan ambush, leaving Jadzia standing stunned among the trampled snow.

Iskaya was still slumped against the tree, blood pouring from her mouth. Her hand reaching out towards the werewolf which now approached her on two legs. To Jadzia’s surprise the wolf transformed into a man and Jadzia recognized the sandy brown haired man.

“Gaelen,” she called.

He gave her a quick glance, but seemed not to notice her. Jadzia noticed his pupils were still the shape of a wolfs. He now stood completely naked in the snow and the cold looking down the wounded vampire. The look on her face was that of shock and fear. She tried to speak but was too wounded to do so.

Jadzia moved to approach but a stern voice called out from behind. “Leave him be. He hasn’t yet fully turned back.

A tall old man sat on a horse. His eyes were milky white and though he stared straight ahead it was obvious he couldn’t see. Jadzia had never met him, but knew this was the northern lord, Prince Alvydas Drakoviac. He trotted his horse forward and from across his saddlehorn he lifted up a great bear fur. He tossed it into the snow next to Gaelen, who picked it up and wrapped it around his shoulders.

Gaelen then looked around and saw Jadzia and Alvydas as if for the first time. “Your majesty,” he said, without even a hint of embarrassment at his naked form. He then turned to the Prince. “The bindings please. Quickly. She will not remain wounded for long. Alvydas then tossed him a length of rope, rope that twinkled silver in the light.

He began binding the Black Duchess as Alvydas offered to help Jadzia up onto his horse. “Come, your Majesty. We still have a battle to win.” He lifted her up out of the snow onto the saddle behind him and then charged his horse in the direction of the gunfire.

---

Washed in the blood of the lamb (Wasteland 3 Soundtrack) - Mark Morgan and Joshua James

 

[Esplandia]

June 21, 2009
Bravondy Outskirts, Arrandal

He could still smell the smoke and hear the gunfire. Every step he took drove him further away from the chaos of the city. From time to time he saw groups of people, mostly civilians, some in uniform. All fleeing.

Bravondy had fallen. The rebels, as the upper command was still calling them, had rolled in with tanks and heavy equipment and taken the city. Their crimson banner was now flying from the towers of the Palat Roz.

He didn’t look back, instead pushing forward. He’d been with a militia unit defending the Waiczyn Hill, but they’d been hit hard, breaking as the enemy armor rolled up on them. He hadn’t seen anyone else. He was likely all that made it out.

A jet flew by overhead and he ducked next to a hedge, keeping his head down until it passed. After a minute he got back up and continued. Artillery crashed down in the distance. He couldn’t tell for sure but guessed that it was targeting the Cytadda Azurpalat, the Azure Dawn citadel.

He came around a bend in the road and stopped in his tracks. A young girl was wandering around, a dazed look on her face. Fear crossed her face when she saw him.

“It’s alright,” he called to her. “I’m with the Brovondkraj militia.”

She looked at his uniform, and while she still seemed wary, she didn’t run. “What’s your name?”

“Jad…Jedwiga,” she answered.

“What are you doing out here? Where’s your parents?”

“My parents were killed. I was with a dawnguard, but he…” tears filled her eyes and she started to cry. Her shoulders shook with quiet sobs.

He dropped to one knee and hugged her, patting her back and trying his best to soothe her.

“My name’s Ouric,” he told her, brushing her hair. “I’ll keep you safe,” he promised.

---

The road was filled with refugees fleeing east, and military going west. He ignored anyone trying to talk to him. The regular military folks for their part ignored him and none approached when they saw the girl. Another militiaman who’d grabbed his family and fled.

“They we’re taking me to Mystzpolst,” Jedwiga explained about the Dawnguard she’d been with. “My uncle is there.”

“What’s his name?”

“Orlan.”

“Do you know his last name?”

She just shook her head. He’d at least get her to Mystzpolst. He would try to find her uncle, but didn’t have much hope. Still the city would be safer than out on the road.

At one point they were approached by some local Argintdrast militia, asking him where he was going and where his unit was. He ignored them until one got in his way. He then fibbed, saying he had orders to travel to the city. He bluffed his way past the group, even though he could tell they didn’t buy his story.

He ditched his uniform for a set of clothes he stole of someone’s line. Eventually a local saw him with Jedwiga in tow and took pity on them, letting them ride in his truck.

“Fleeing the capital?” the old man asked.

“Trying to get to Mystzpolst,” Ouric confirmed. “Do you think it’s safe?”

“Should be. I heard the rebels were stopped near Liepz. Our boys’ll drive them back.”

Ouric doubted anything would stop them, but he nodded anyway. They fell into silence, a foreign rock song playing through static on the radio. Ouric listened, only understanding some of the Mercanti.

Trust I seek and I find in you
Every day for us something new
Open mind for a different view
And nothing else matters.

Jedwiga had fallen asleep against him. Mostly they rode in silence, the old man trying to start a conversation from time to time. But eventually even Ouric fell asleep.

---

Mystzpolst was filled with refugees. They’d arrived in the city just behind the news that Liepz had fallen and the military was in full retreat towards the coast.

Ouric kept a firm grip on Jedwiga’s hand as they dodged through the crowds. “Do you know where your uncle lives?”

She wrinkled her brow thinking. “Cherry Hill,” she answered.

“You sure?” he asked in surprise.

She nodded affirmatively. Ouric gave her a suspicious glance, wondering about her. “That’s the rich part of town,” he told her. “Up near the old castle. Is your uncle rich.”

She gave him a sheepish look. “I think so. He always dressed fancy.”

Ouric started them towards Cherry Hill. “Maybe there will be a reward,” he muttered to himself, half joking.

The closer they got, the thinner the crowds grew. The old fortress stood atop the imposing hill. The streets wind around it, with massive stone mansions that looked out to the sea. They climbed the hill peeking through iron gates at well kep terrace gardens.

Ouric wondered what it was like to live there. To live the east life.

He was deep in thought and nearly collided with two young women coming out of one of the gates. They were making their way across the sidewalk to a waiting car. He apologized and went to go past them.

“Hold up,” one of the girls called to him. She eyes his clothing, and then looked at the young women he was with. Ouric also couldn’t help looking at the girl. She was probably a year or two younger than him but a good six inches taller. She had shining blond hair and the most stunning blue eyes. “Where are you going?” she asked in a snooty but not rude tone.

“To find this girls uncle,” Ouric answered truthfully. “She got separated from her caretaker.”

“And where does her uncle live?”

Ouric couldn’t help looking guilty. “I, uh, don’t know,” he stammered. “She just knows he lives here somewhere. His name is, uh, Orlan. I don’t know the last name.”

The girl looked at him with an unreadable expression. She then addressed Jedwiga. “Do you know this man?” she asked concerned.

“Yes. He’s been helping me.”

“Okay, well then I will also try to help you.” She turned to the other woman and whispered something. The other woman was not as well dressed and was likely a servant of some sort. She curtsied and returned through the gate heading back to the house.

The blond girl turned back to Ouric. “I am Katja, Lady Aszenhal. Now you might not know this, but the only Orlan who owns a house here hasn’t been seen in four years.”

Katja stepped closer. “You see his name is Orlan Valteren and he is king presumptive. And if that girl is in fact his niece, that means your traveling with the child of our late King Bajoras.”

Ouric looked at Jedwiga in shock. She must have known what was being said because she was looking away in shame.

“What’s your real name?” he asked her.

She spoke quietly, because saying her own name was dangerous. “Jadzia Calagvic-Valteren.”

---

Nothing Else Matters - Metallica