Difference between revisions of "Enderal:Tales of the Wanderer: The Well-traveled One"

I cannot claim to have attended many parties in my life. Neither have I ever loved like normal people do. And concerning women, well I... do not know what it means to share a bed with them. Soft, mellow kisses and tenderness play no part in my destiny. The harsh wind of the tides which slowly carry me off, the surging waves of the salty sea, harsh mountaintops and the shadow of old trees, a sparkling starry sky above my head, these are what make me feel at home. I have visited many places, seen much evil. These are my priceless memories, which will remain with me until death. A lone wanderer, eternally cursed to stride ahead towards a brightly shining sun on the horizon. On the mild evening near summer's end when this tale took place, none of that mattered. Every so often I wished that time could stand still, the world stay as it was with me still sitting on that wooden bench in the cheerfully decorated village square, with the seductive whispers of that young woman in my ear...

The festivities had been in full swing since noon and were still going strong well into the evening. Cause for celebration was not only this year's bountiful harvest but the marriage of the village chief's daughter to a sturdy, good-looking boy from a neighboring village as well. The party had elevated the entire village to an exceptional state. Ropes with colorful lampoons hung between houses and trees and tinted the tall oaks and poplars in cheerful red, green, blue and yellow. The villagers danced, ate and drank to their hearts' content. Streets and alleys were filled with the sounds of cheery drunken voices singing to the tune of lutes, flutes, drums and whatever other instruments the local musicians happened to own. Elderly people shared their fables with children, while on a stage in the village square all kinds of performers practiced their craft throughout the day, from jugglers to animal tamers.

Ah, I could fill a great many pages describing the splendid atmosphere! I enjoyed it tremendously, even though one could hardly tell when looking at me. In the middle of all the hustle and bustle I cautiously sipped from my mug of beer. Despite my inner joy at taking part in the festivities, my presence here was not by chance. There was something I had to do in this town. Somebody to meet.

While I watched the villagers dance, a finger tenderly tapped me on the shoulder. I turned around and found myself looking at the face of a young woman. Her hair spilled down her shoulders in little walnut brown curls and framed her flushed face, a red tinge to her cheeks from the alcohol. Her gaze was sweet and happy but held something more as well, an immeasurable depth beneath the sparkling blue surface of her eyes. Still waters run deep, as the saying goes…

"Mysir, may I have this dance of you?" she asked me. "You look so gloomy, it is simply not allowed on such a beautiful, festive day."

I gave her a half-smile. "Am I not a bit too old for you?" I was still in my prime, but anyone could see that I had more than a few winters on the girl and that she could have decided on every other young man around here instead of me.

"Luckily that is not for you to decide." She held her hand out to me.

For several moments I was at war with myself, but ultimately desire conquered my reservations and I accepted the invitation of her outstretched hand. She led me into the crowd of dancing people. I must admit that I had never been much of a dancer, but it did not take long before she had so thoroughly ensnared me that I was twirling her around and performing dance steps I had never even dreamt of. To say that I enjoyed myself would be an understatement. Very rarely can I permit myself to forget everything around me, forget about my task, my duty, about collecting clues and following their trail. That evening, looking at the woman's beautiful face while we danced and danced until our feet were sore, I was allowed to do just that.

Exhausted we finally sat on a bench for a rest and started talking. My partner - Lari, it turned out her name was - was a charming conversationalist and time flew by just as much as it had while we danced. We discussed all manner of subjects common folk usually talk about. I could not resist telling her that I fancied her. If my obligations had allowed it, I would likely have spent several days with her. Perhaps even longer. Who knows, we might have become a cute couple, with children and calm evenings filled with chittering crickets and coziness. Thinking back on that possibility, that sudden chance at a different life, still causes a twinge of heartache, but I've always known of the sacrifices I would have to make.

Night was falling. Slowly it got darker and one by one the performers left the stage. The village chief staggered onto the stage in their stead, visibly drunk. After setting his mug down beside him he clapped his hands. Silence spread across the village square. Meanwhile a joke of mine made Lari laugh so hard she nearly fell off the bench.

"You still haven't told me your name, funny stranger," she said, leaning so close that her scent filled my nose. She had bathed a short while ago, perhaps even just before the party had started. The minty smell of her soap was delightful.

I knew I owed Lari my name, although I could not give her one. I have no name... would have been a nobody in her eyes. I was about to answer when the village chief decided people were paying sufficient attention and announced with a loud, slurred voice: "Mydames and Mysirs! I believe you have all been properly warmed up by now; it's time for the real show to begin! Because no price is too high for my dear daughter and her groom, I have arranged an extraordinary surprise as the highlight of the evening. Our main act for tonight has traveled to us from faraway lands. He has already astonished neighboring villages with his incredible skills and now he has arrived here. Let us welcome the legendary, fearless fire-breather. I present you Dragobar, the Flame of Nehrim!"

I pricked my ears. Silence filled the air as the crowd held their collective breath in anticipation. A scrawny fellow entered the stage and bowed to the audience. He wore long, loose-fitting trousers which he had stuffed into his boots. From the waist up he was naked, leaving multiple burn scars on his chest on display. On the right side of his head a patch of hair was missing - probably also a victim of a failed scorch at some point - the rest protruded from his head in a gray-white thicket. The fire-breather took a deep gulp from the bottle he had brought on stage before putting it down and raising his torch. A blinding flash of fire shot from the torch into the air. With his free hand Dragobar took a phial from his belt and removed the cork. Above the flames he turned the phial upside down and moved it back and forth with an elegant motion of his wrist. The fire followed the movements and created a long, swirling, shimmering snake. He made the snake whirl above the stage and describe several complex patterns in the air while he himself spun and jumped acrobatically across the wooden boards to complement the fiery figures.

The entire audience was in awe of Dragobar's performance; the snake was only the beginning of the show. It was followed by artistic interludes with bow and arrow and tricks in which he combined self-made constructions with his flame arts. The Flame of Nehrim lived up to his name. Eventually - Dragobar was currently letting two spiraling columns of fire intertwine - I spotted movement amidst the rear rows of spectators. People were roughly being forced aside. Three guards were pushing their way through to get to the stage. I had anticipated this turn of events; things were about to get truly interesting.

The guards - clearly men of Chancellor Barateon, who had recently seized control of Nehrim's Middlerealm - climbed onto the stage under vehement protests of the village chief. One soldier tore the torch from the fire-breather's hands, threw it on the ground and stomped it out.

Lari inched closer to me on the bench in fear.

"Are you the one called the "Flame of Nehrim"?" the commander of the small group asked gruffly.

"Who wants to know?" Dragobar asked in return.

"Don't go acting smart. You're in trouble, friend. You're using the forbidden arts: magic. No use denying it either, we've seen enough of your trickery just now. Chancellor Barateon doesn't tolerate your kind anymore. We have orders to take you with us."

"And whereto do the sirs intend to take me?"

"The dark cell where you belong."

Dragobar sighed. "Alright. Let me collect my stuff first, then I'll come with you."

I frowned to myself. That was too easy. Surely he would never surrender just like that.

The fire-breather went to the back of the stage and rummaged through his belongings. "I never liked Barateon one bit, even before he came to power," he said, his back turned to the soldiers. "I always thought that his breath smelled awful. You could smell the stench in the entire town every time he held a speech."

Weapons clanked at the insult, but before the soldiers could deal out some punishment for his insolence, Dragobar spun around and threw a metal object between the three of them - something with eight mechanical legs.

The soldiers let out shouts of surprise. "What the blazes is this?!"

A loud noise resounded, upon which the thing promptly exploded. Thick, greenish smoke engulfed the soldiers. I could barely see them anymore, but it looked like they had broken down into violent coughs and were staggering around aimlessly.

The village square descended into chaos. I broke away from a baffled Lari without a word of goodbye and forced my way through the crowd. My merry moments of bliss were over; it was time to leave. Time to abandon the fantasy I had allowed myself to slip into for a short while and resume my mission.

I spotted Dragobar only after I had made it out of the crowd. He left the village at a brisk pace. Quietly I followed him through the dark night into the forest. Eventually he stopped in front of an old burial chamber situated in the fangs of a slope, the entrance overgrown by two tall trees. The iron gate, which would once have barred said entrance, was bent so severely that one could easily pass through.

If I continued to sneak after him there was the risk of scaring him off if he noticed me, so I decided to place everything on one card. "So this is where you hide."

Dragobar flinched like a skittish animal at the sound of my voice, but then he disappeared into the tomb.

I slid down the slope and halted a few steps from the broken gate so I could see the Flame of Nehrim again. "A good hiding place," I noted conversationally. "The soldiers definitely won't search for you here."

"If nobody tells them about it, then no," he replied, turning around and facing me. The hint of a threat in his tone was unmistakable.

"You have nothing to fear from me."

Silence descended between us, until the cry of a tawny owl in the forest pierced the silence like a sharp blade.

"There are stories about a wanderer in this area," Dragobar finally said. "They're about you."

"What makes you-"

"I can tell by your scent. You do not smell like this part of the world - more like a combination of many different smells from all over the continent."

"You must have an excellent nose."

He stepped close to me and sniffed in such an exaggerated manner that I could see his nostrils move in the light of the moon. "No, just an excellently trained one. I often interact with animals, such as squirrels. Clever little fellows. They've taught me how to truly use one's nose."

"I see." I regarded him with irritation. It was known that Dragobar was a bit of a lunatic. But it was also said that he had not always been this way, that there was a time before the madness had caught up to him. Even so, regardless of the state of his sanity, there clearly was plenty of intelligence left in him; his inventions for the stage performance as well as the way he moved testified to that. His every move was thoughtful, calculated. "If you know that I'm a wanderer, then perhaps you also know why I am here."

Dragobar scoffed. "Of course I do. I am no fool. You want to write a story about me, as your kind is wont to do. You're not the first person of the craft I've met. No ordinary wanderers, but collectors. Poking and nosing around for shiny bloody stories. The question is: why? Why collect tales of warrior skills? For war? Are you building an army in secret, molding it with your discoveries? Or is there a much bigger mystery behind the quest?" He peered at me from under his bushy brows, still standing uncomfortably close. "I will only tell you my story if you answer me."

I met his mad stare unyielding and resolute, my own gaze steadier than an old stone. "I cannot answer your questions. If you really are familiar with my "craft", you should understand that."

"Well, then you may take your leave right now, Mysir. I won't tell you a single thing about me, no matter what you may have heard." He started walking backwards, a few steps removed from disappearing into the darkness of the burial chamber.

"I have heard many stories about you, in fact. Such as that Dragobar, the Flame of Nehrim, has learned fire-breathing from dragons. That he himself is a dragon disguised in human form. And..." I paused for a moment to deepen the impact of what I was about to say, "that he is the sole survivor of the Sunfire."

Dragobar froze mid-step, his face still as ice in the last sliver of moonlight that reached him. Only his eyes betrayed the long-forgotten memory creeping back into his mind.

"I've investigated the rumors about you for a long time before I finally managed to track you here. It certainly wasn't easy. You hide yourself damned well."

Dragobar remained silent.

I continued: "I've discovered a great deal about you - what claim to chronicling the greatest fighters of this age would I have if I allowed a genius like you to slip through my fingers? You were present when Dal'Marak created the Sunwheel and destroyed Thalgard with his greed. No - that wouldn't be giving you enough credit, would it? Not only were you present, you acted as his assistant, did you not?" The fire-breather's far-away look regained focus, returning to me. "You were one of the most famous arcane inventors and strategists of your time: Torus, the "Arcane One". Or Torus Tasselsrock, if you prefer your given name to the drivel poets imposed on your person. Or perhaps you've already forgotten your real name? After all, this all happened more than 2000 years and many, many lifetimes ago. I'd just like you to enlighten me about one thing that continues to elude me: How did you survive this long?"

For quite a long time Dragobar simply stared at me, aghast. Then he burst out laughing. "That's a marvelous story you've fabricated there. A word of advice: you should ease on the Glimmercapdust, Mysir. I fear the excess may have addled your mind somewhat. I am merely a humble fire-breather from Enderal. Although I feel honored that you see such a famous character in me, I regretfully have to disappoint you and disprove your fantastic theory." He bowed mockingly in farewell, obviously hoping I would slink off in defeat and leave him be.

Of course I was not about to be driven off so easily. "Cut the act," I bit. "Your mask fell long ago. You know very well that you cannot trick someone like me. Let's just get straight to the point."

Torus' expression of silly feigned kindness chilled quickly. In an even colder voice, he asked: "Does anybody else know?"

I sighed. "Are you in earnest? Do you truly wish to threaten me? That would very much go against your legacy." I could hear him grind his teeth. That he was conflicted was my clue that I had struck a nerve. "Your survival has to be one of the most enthralling discoveries of our era. The way I see it, you have two choices. One: you kill me and hope that by doing so you finally bury your secret for all eternity. Or: you hear me out and give a genuine conversation with me a chance. I do not wish to fight you, but should you consider to do so, I would like to remind you that the abilities one acquires for my line of work make me my enemies' worst nightmare. So I do advise you to choose the second option."

Torus said nothing, likely weighing his options. Suddenly he came at me. I twitched barely noticeably but he walked past me, to a large rock on the other side of the gate and sat down. "What is it that you want to know?" he asked me.

"Tell me what happened when the Sunwheel was activated."

"Would if I could... The last thing I remember is an enormous, ear-piercing explosion, which took both my hearing and sight. Before activating it Dal'Marak and I had tried to decipher the artifact. Obviously we failed - that's common knowledge, I suppose. When I awoke after the explosion I was in an entirely different place, in the middle of Qyra's desert, far from civilization. I was fortunate that a passing merchant caravan found me and took me in. And just like that, my new life began..."

He told me about what had happened from that moment on, about his travels across the continents, about his search for a new meaning of life. About how he had let Torus die and taken the name Dragobar and many more. In a way, his current existence resembled mine. He too wandered all the time, home- and nameless. He had become nobody.

"You changed after the explosion, didn't you?” I asked when he had finished his tale. “Something has been different since then."

Torus nodded. "I lost all my magical abilities. I am no longer able to even light a small fire anymore... how disgraceful for a former master of the arcane! On the other hand, I gained eternal life. Age cannot kill me anymore. As long as nobody pierces me with a spear, I will live until Vyn turns to ashes."

"Immortality, eternal life... I thought such a thing was only possible for the Lost Ones, and in a much more macabre way."

"Then I think it's clear that you were wrong, isn't it? Though I'm not living the dream most would imagine immortality to be. My body may last another eternity, but my mind will not. Truth is: the longer I live, the more insane I become. Madness is slowly taking over my mind; I live by the day. There's no fighting it. I can do nothing to prevent it."

So there was a price after all. My suspicion was confirmed at last. I decided to ask a final question, satisfy one more lingering curiosity: "Why do you perform as a fire-breather, and why in Nehrim?"

"Fire-breathing has always been an enjoyable pastime in between the battles and research. This identity as Dragobar gave me support when I had none. As for why Nehrim?" Torus shrugged. "Well, until this new Chancellor came into power it was a decent enough place to live. I traveled through the settlements from north to south, always had something to eat and a roof over my head. Most of the people here hold true talent in high esteem."

Neither of us spoke for a long while after that. I knew it was time for the second - and most important - part of my twofold mission tonight. I took a deep breath, gathering myself, and said: "I am not only here to write about you. Every so often my quest requires offering aid to souls which do not belong in this world any longer. The magical power of the Sunwheel had a different effect on you than on your master and companions. Somehow it spared you and brought you to a different place. Perhaps because you still had a mission to accomplish in life. The explosion left a mark on you and granted you a supernatural lifespan. This magical trace is also why I knew I had to find you. You do not belong here anymore, Torus. I can see into the innermost depths of your being. Your time is long up. The mission which bound you to life has already been accomplished."

He lowered his gaze. "Will you kill me?"

"No," I replied, "killing is against my creed. However, there is something else I can do for you. It will only work if you've made peace with yourself and are ready to move on and walk the Eternal Paths. I realize that after such a long time it must be hard to let go."

"Tell me, what is it?" Both hope and fear quivered in Torus' voice.

I reached into my satchel and revealed a small, flat stone, roughly the size of a fingertip. It shimmered weakly in the moonlight, in all the colors of the rainbow. "This is a shifter." I placed it on a tree stump. "If you swallow it, you will be able to leave this world without any pain."

"You won't force me to swallow it?"

"Judging over life and death is not my task. I wish to help you, but the decision is yours to make. I can merely offer you a choice. If there ever comes a time when immortality and madness become too much for you to handle, take it. It will set you free." I pulled my cloak more tightly around me and walked past him. The foliage of last autumn on the ground rustled beneath my boots.

"Thank you, Wanderer."

I paused in my steps, glanced over my shoulder and gave a nod. Then I left the forest.

~

Whether he still lives or made use of my help, I cannot say. Dragobar, Torus, the Arcane One, the Flame of Nehrim - the man has had many names, many of which we do not even know. I want to add one more: Torus Tasselsrock - the "Swashbuckler".