Children of Terra

~8 April 999~ ~Caed Uniade~ ~North-northwest of Ghelibol~ ~Pruflas, seeker~ Information gathering was one thing that brought the duke to peace. Less and less did he spend his nights wallowing -- replaced with concrete plans, ideas, and hunger. The elves -- Aen Seidhe -- had intimate knowledge of the Conjunction, portals, and through-ways. They didn't have means, however. It came to a couple of choices:       Wait for another mundus-wide conjunction. This was unreliable. No one can guess how long that would take;       Find a navigator between worlds. Either a mage of absolute power, an Aen Saevherne, or Aen Elle navigator. Good luck;       Most promising was to journey to a place of power supreme, and do it himself.       He relayed his intention to the enclave of elves, the Caed Uniade. Aelen the spiritual guide ordered a night of celebration to mask the two's meet.       It was a cool spring evening when the Caed set up libations. Snow had firmly retreated back to the mountain peaks away, grass had unfurled once again, and trees bloomed to animal song. Pruflas decided to partake of some manner of 'lembas' wine. A bread-yeast derivative that retained the vim and sweetness of the parent loaf. The flavor masked almost entirely the acrid zing of alcohol, without losing potency. One could become sickly if he didn't pay attention to the body's signals.       The most important factor for the elves was using a particular tree cutting for their fires. A branch that was smokeless so as to not give a trail for pursuers. Slow burning, clean, dense wood. One such bonfire was lighting the clearing on the banks of the Buina and Nimnar, bringing a sense of calm to the duke as he sat at the edge of camp.       Aelen found him here, pulling up a folding seat of wooden design. He cleared his throat once, twice, before sighing. "Ach, well. It's a small price to pay to still be alive. I can finally make good on my oath. Thank you, ffieiddbethau. For my life."       Pruflas looked into his cup of wine a moment, swirling. "It was easy to do. Magic can save as well as it condemns."       "Mhm. So you're off to condemn another 'demon' in another world?"       Pruflas looked up at Aelen. "I don't know why they stopped their hunt -- sleeping on laurels -- but I've only just begun mine."       "Perhaps it is just that, Prrufyas. Why hunt a creature when you have a lure? Better to wait and gather strategy."       An exhale. "First off, I would prefer you just call me abomination. Your accent hurts. And second, they should count on it. Perhaps time will temper my rage to my brothers, but the foul overlords and their minions must die."       Aelen sighed as he looked to the now night sky. "And why must it be, ffieidd-dra? How many stories like this must fill books before people learn a different way?"       "Because tragedy begets tragedy, Aelen. It simply cycles around and around in an ever destabilizing balance -- until someone comes along to smash it all."       Aelen suddenly looked unamused. "I as your friend must speak my mind. Turn back from that. You aren't simply after revenge. You seek to be worse by your own admission."       Pruflas looked back at his reflection in the lembas wine. "The history of my world remembers two types of people: the best of us, and the worst of us. Perhaps no one will remember me, and that is fine. But, I will not simply rest and let them live. Not those ones. Not the archdemons. They gather in themselves too much of the worst things in Terranic humanity."       Aelen looked sidelong at the sight of this errant way-worlder. The way the demon's shoulders hanged over a cup of wine, stewing in his own. It was a sight elves had seen many times, and to be here, now. "I believe such a Path would cause for exile among my people. It brings ill tidings when one goes on such a way -- judgement of one is judgement of all. I cannot abandon my people to aid you, ffieidd-dra. You know this."       "I did not ask otherwise. I leave tonight."       Aelen stood, uncorking from his hip a new flask of lembas wine. He held it to Pruflas, who looked up a moment before taking the small jug. "I wish we could aid you further in our knowledge, cythraul-o'r-tu hwnt. That said, we know of ones that possess such worldly knowledge. Ones that dare to venture beyond glades, into lands few else will. You know them: Vatt-ghern. Abominations of man and mage to do what none else want. They will know where such places of power are. They use them."       Pruflas stood himself, preparing to go. Aelen held his hand up to the back, as if to bid him stay. The elf kept his lips shut in the end, watching as the demon sank into the night -- while his own ears listened to the sounds of Caed Uniade merry making into the night. ~12 April 999~ ~Upriver on Buina~ ~Northern region of Ghelibol~ ~Pruflas, cythraul-o'r-tu hwnt~ In lands far out of human or other sentient control, predators gave way to other lurks. Drowners became foglets, ghouls became nekkers, and rotfiends became water hags. Creatures that hunted beasts as oft as men. Pruflas spent the nights observing these things and the ecosystem. Why in the absence of tangible monsters do men create false ones? Was it even a question worth asking?       The mind of the duke wandered so much more in the silence. He knew thinking of the past only anchored him to it, but the fact remained his once-family still lived. And he would do anything to crumble the Goetian traitors.       Half a day's travel into the 13th dawn of April saw Pruflas meander on a river crossing; where silt dunes provided enough traction to wagon-travel. The place reeked of metallic blood, lighting alertness in the duke. He squatted, taking a survey of the scene.       The river crossing was typical: in that reeds marked the banks; murky water snaking around silted dunes in a path permissible to wagon. Larger oak trees groaned in wind, but was otherwise a clear area of a standard countryside road. It didn't explain the reek of death.       Not wanting to bring attention, the duke crouched forward, scanning the banks and eddies of the Buina. Once he was within a step of the bank did he see a pattern: a swirling eddy where no overt cause could be seen. He decided to throw some magia-pebbles into the stream, to see if it was a particularly clever water hag. Nothing.       With an outward breath, Pruflas bent on fording the river, to the eddy. The water seeped and cooled to his skin immediately, and his boots sunk in the mud, vacuuming with every step. Up to the waist water pushed past; him struggling to steady each further step.       Once he found about where the eddy was, he tentatively reached into the water, searching. Nothing. Was it really that deep? With a sigh of resignation, he stooped in the water, wetting his arms and chest to the neck as he searched the river silt. Here and there . . . and, got it! A rubbery feeling item. Heavy. He put his core into yanking upward, until the feeling of deep roots snapping made purchase fast enough he slipped backward.       Immediately, the foul smell hit his nostrils. In his hand was an arm torn, decayed -- blue from submersion. The eddy darkened with freed humors, mixing downstream. Pruflas felt wiggling on his hand; seeing maggots flowing from the arm to his own. Oh gods! He flung the arm away, flashing his arm in magia and thaumaturgy to fry the maggots off.       Fucking hells . . . ! The duke clambered back to shore, regretting getting soaked for that. He shook his clothes and prepared to cast some drying airs when the tree line behind him rattled, branches snapping in the herald of something powerful.       When he turned around, he barely had the time to fling to the side as a massive quadruped barreled past him, flattening the area. The ground shook at the weight. Scrambling to his feet, he beheld a great beast at least 3.5 paces high, horns easily reaching to 4 paces. The hulking body rippled with muscle, forearms massive and shoveling dirt as it began another charge at Pruflas.       He dove backward, left hand bursting with thaumaturgy to escape while the right fired a stone bullet. Nothing. The stone sunk into the thick fur and hide of the beast as it bellowed -- so loud the duke winced and began the ringing of buzz -- grass whipping along the vibrations of its throat.       It reared its head down for a charge, Pruflas barely managing to whirl aside. What fearsome power! The ground buckled under each step of the monster, dirt flying about as it easily imposed its will to move.       Before the duke could react and fire another spell, the great beast buried its horns in the ground of the river bank, heaving a great cloud-mass at Pruflas in another charge. "Fuckin' . . . !" This was bad. The beast was by far more powerful than the minotaur, just from the terror aura it produced. The duke was getting tired.       He readied a flame deluge in his palm and flung it at the terror; whereupon fur ignited along with grass around. Pruflas began to run as the beast shrieked and bucked like a maddened bull. He ran to the tree line about 10 paces from the Buina, looking back.       Immediately the world drained of sensation. The only feelings Pruflas could discern was his own heartbeat -- and labored breathing. A faint rumbling of what was likely the beast charging only faint registered in the mind of the duke. All he saw was an eye.       Then a great tackle from the side. Color bled back into vision, and the tinnitus resolved back to clarity, " . . . into the eye -- bite your lip to remain focused! Hey! Get up!" A hand roughly flung the duke aside as the monster charged once more. Instead of a recovery, the beast whinnied out in a peal as whoever saved Pruflas made a move.       It was the smell of monster blood that worked the duke into action. He looked up, ascertaining a new figure: a man with dark brown hair shaved to the top of his head. A tattoo adorned the sides. Two swords on his back, one drawn. The monster reared to gore the human, who made to roll aside another barreling tree-crush.       From this angle -- as the man knelt from the roll -- Pruflas saw the most striking feature of the man: bright yellow cat's eyes. And the speed the man moved -- despite being in plated chain armor. Pruflas knew; this was a true vatt-ghern.       The man called out to Pruflas while swinging his blade into the beast's side, "You used fire magic before! Keep using it or we'll both die!"       Another bellow pealed into the area, before the hulk slammed its arms down into the ground. The man tumbled backward, not before flinging a bout of fire from his own hand at the figure. Scalding heat made the beast turn its head.       Pruflas didn't waste time; he concentrated aether into a fire lance and flung it left-handed at the turned face of the monster. It pierced the third eye, causing a squealing roll as it tumbled into trees -- felling them under the massive bulk.       The man took a vial from his belt and quickly poured it on his blade, then charging fearlessly at the tumultuous form. Whirling cuts along the legs, aiming for tendons. Before too much damage could be done, the beast straightened its back and arced the horns to repel the man. He had to block using his blade -- tossed at least 5 paces.       Pruflas readied another fire lance and flung at the head -- however this time the beast lowered down and took the blow on the antlers. He dove aside as the beast charged past; but a rear leg kicked out and firmly purchased the duke's chest. Sickening crack. Multiple ribs broke as he tumble-rolled along the ground.       The next breath came with blood, the duke choked as it bubbled up. His vision darkened about the periphery and he collapsed to one arm. Clamor subsumed into heartbeats before the duke fell into unconsciousness. ~Unknown time later~ ~A stone room~ ~Lashed to a bed~ ~Pruflas~ The first register was grogginess. Like the body hadn't slept in ages. Then came the pain. He writhed about, quickly finding his arms and legs in a bind onto a medical bench.       A voice, even and smooth basso, called from beyond his vision: "I apologize. Swallow is a standard potion for witchers. Luckily we keep antidotes for situations such as this."       Pruflas cursed, not at the savior, but out of sheer pain coiling in his gut. It felt as though his insides were melting. He would swear in this moment being gutted is less painful.       The man came into view. Same as the one from the bank of Buina. Feline eyes looked down. "Was that Rivian? Unusual accent for these parts, but we've seen much in Morgraig."       Pruflas was so used to speaking Souobenoi -- Common in this world -- it took a moment to register the dialect. "I - yes. Rivian, you say? That is the language I am most familiar."       The witcher looked up to someone out of the duke's view before speaking again. "Well, Rivian, my name is Erland, of Larvik. I brought you to Castle Morgraig since you present a case: you look Aen Saevherne; yet the eyes and markers suggest mutation; the minor wounds should've healed by now; now you speak the Rivian tongue. Magic and other oddities we assumed as your heritage -- then your body rejected Swallow -- a basic Witcher potion any of us could easily handle." Erland took a breath. "So, let's hear it from you. What are you?"       Pruflas didn't detect hostility from Erland or the other out-of-view witchers; only precautionary hesitance. He decided truth. "From beyond the Conjunction. I have met with Aen Seidhe down river, and they called me 'cythraul-o'r-tu hwnt' or --" Before he could continue, pain lanced his ribs.       "Demon-from-beyond. We vatt-ghern dabble in the languages of peaceful species. They let you go then. I tracked the area around where the Fiend was. One set of footprints, yours." Erland unclasped a dagger and began working the binds on Pruflas.       One of the other witchers voiced his objection. Erland replied, "He's a mage, equal to many in the Brotherhood. He didn't even try to cast any magic. Don't your talismans work?" Not good enough. "Fine. What is your name, demon-from-beyond?"       Despite having one hand freed, Pruflas lay still on the bed. "Pruflas. Of Terra."       "Pruflas of Terra? Can you hold a hand out? A simple test to prove you aren't a monster needs killing."       A groan and the duke obeyed. He felt a metallic object slip into the palm. It exuded a numbing effect on him, tingly but otherwise harmless. He craned his neck to look at the item; it appeared to be a necklace, the pendant itself a slit cat's eye. Uncanny, like it stares directly at the observer. Hard to notice at first, but it hummed in his touch.       Erland continued to cut the binds on the legs, looking to the other witchers. "Good enough, then?"       Pruflas broke gaze from the medallion before realizing Erland wasn't speaking to him. The witcher finished freeing the duke before holding a hand for the pendant back.       "The medallion's made of pure silver. Enchanted especially for magical sensitivity. Point being --"       "I can touch it." Pruflas lay back on the bed, wincing.       "Very good. It means we won't have to skin you for Garmuk's new scabbard."       Pruflas mumbled before speaking up. "I'm afraid I need a bit more rest. I will be happy to share all the information I can in the meantime. I . . . also need to ask for a request of my own."       Erland's eyes thinned but he simply nodded his head.       "Once I am past infirm, I need to find a place of especial power. The Aen Seidhe told me it's the best way to get back to my own world."       "Fortunate. I have a contract for a monster 10 days north of here. It might take two months at least for you to heal with those wounds. Good. Means the snow will have more time to melt."       Pruflas closed his eyes in relief. "Where is this monster?"       "Nesting on the peak of Great Kestrel, father of the range Morgraig is in."       Two months give or take. Pruflas couldn't stand the aching anymore, asking for a bit before forcing himself to sleep.