Let the word and the legend go before you.
6/12/2010
It was in Arden that Eric met Hrafnkel, having instructed his nephew to come prepared for a journey of a few days. And now, his smile having never faltered, it is day two of that journey - at least in the way of sunrises and sunsets while traveling shadow. The land is rocky now, the forests left behind and traded for gray stone with hints of purple. It's a barren wasteland that only grudgingly gives way to sparse scrub brush. The air is dry and hot, the sky is a sickly green striated with blue. Eric sits astride a large white horse of magnificent breed, the saddle white, the tack white and gold.
The barren landscape draws Hraf's weary squint along it's features and horizon. He steers his horse to the side and a bit behind his uncle's, mindful as always of such etiquette. The conversation had perhaps not babbled in free flow throughout the ride, and Hraf finally ventures, "I wished to say that I spoke to my father. Your offer to him was kind, uncle."
"Without family we have nothing," Eric responds gravely, even if the tone doesn't quite match the expression. The land begins to rise, a slope that's not quite gentle, but not impossible for the horses. "There is a weakness that is coming to Amber. A forgetfulness that we need to keep at bay. Caine's children, and mine, are as good a place to begin as anywhere else, Hrafnkel."
Hrafnkel's gaze moves briefly to his uncle from his survey to Eric, subtly inquisitive. After a thoughtful moment, he asks, "You said to me, once to remember that I serve Amber. I do. If you know a threat, I hope you wouldn't consider my cooperation variable, uncle."
Something like an aurora borealis drifts across the sky, a lazy film of wild magic twisting its way through the firmament. "We are not meant to be nice people, Hrafnkel. We are bastards, all. For as bastards we do what we must. We are gods and godslayers; we are devils and angels; we are plagues and we are salvation. We are the strength upon which our kingdom was founded." He looks grim, and even Eric's smile reflects that. "And our strength is flagging."
Hrafnkel straightens in the saddle at the last part. "I am out of favor, you know, for my differences with the Solarises on that front." His smile is wan in gallows humor, for an instant, before he sobers. "I serve a different ethic from them. You know how to restore this strength, uncle?"
"Favor is like time; it changes." Eric is quiet as they negotiate a trickly switchback loop along their ascent of the gray and purple incline, which has now become something of a tall mountain in a bleak wasteland. Three large shadows pass over them, cast by great birds of prey circling above. "This is a step towards the repair, nephew. This is your first turn in the crucible. A chance to make a story to tell others."
Hrafnkel's eyes drift skywards in curious search of the shadows' source. He watches them, for a moment, instead of his uncle, letting his horse mark the way. Something in the sight inspires a simple reply. "I'm ready, uncle."
The birds above them might appear more reptilian than avian. "What keeps peace," Eric says, "is not violence, but the threat of extermination. We were that threat. The best swordsmen. The best sorcerers. The best liers. The biggest bastards. That is what we are meant to be, Hrafnkel. None would challenge our supremecy as they had heard our legends, they believed they knew what we were capable of, you understand?" He draws rein at the top of the mountain. Somewhere on the wasted plane below is a city with high walls and squar buildings.
Hrafnkel's eyes drift from the flying hunters down to his uncle as though lowered by the gravity of the spoken thoughts. A nod is offered as Hraf regards him. "I do. We have need to reassert this fact, uncle. Or reafffirm the truth of it."
Eric nods at Hrafnkel. He points, then, towards the city. "Behold, Relgin. It is a city ruled by a magocracy. In the southwest, we'll call it, of the city there is an inn called the Broken Star. There you might find members of a small resistance. They'll never be able to overthrough the magocracy, Hrafnkel. Not on their own. But they are the weapon you will wield. Bring no magic to this place. Become its ruler. Exterminate the magocracy."
It's Eric's thoughts that roil behind the lightning flash of Hraf's eyes, but his own sense of passionate approval that greets them, with something akin to a sense of identity smoothing his features into certainty. Bloody war and upheaval fail to trouble the assurance of his countenance as he gazes off with a deceptively serene gaze in the intended direction. He seems to consider the directions for an instant, and comes up only with the question, "Do you wish to be kept abreast of my progress, Uncle, or merely informed when I am finished?"
"There is no need to contact me again, Hrafnkel, unless you are reporting your success," Eric notes. "So remember this place well. Your legend begins here."
Hrafnkel's head inclines to his uncle. "I wouldn't have any other message for you, Uncle." There is reverence in his tone, but also an exhilaration.
Eric turns his horse back down the mountain and says nothing more.
Hrafnkel watches his uncles departure through his brows, maintaining the slight incline of his head until he is alone. Then his gaze turns to the city before him and a smile tugs the corners of his lips into a grin.