Children of Terra

~10 June 999~ ~Heavy-snowed nook~ ~Side ravine of Great Kestrel~ ~Pruflas, mage-on-the-cusp~ Being that he could block out cold, the next hardest part in resting the night was whistling. It never ceased at this altitude. Great turbulence of weather drawn by cold northern buttes and warm southern drafts -- battling evermore on the peaks of the Kestrels. Right in the area where the duke and witcher were sleeping. The monster slayer slept like a heedless log. Granted, there were far worse situations to rest in, but the duke greeted morning lacking a cycle or two of the good stuff.       Erland was already up and performing rudimentary calisthenics. Pruflas yawned as he broke repose, speaking: "How much sleep do you need?"       A roll and pop of the shoulders, elbows. "Need? Very little. The mutations are thorough, often true meditation is enough."       "But you slept last night."       Knees, ankles, hamstrings. "We're to face an extraordinary foe, even for a witcher."       Pruflas fully got up, stretching out and shaking his limbs. "And the stretching?"       Erland finally reared to full height, breath misting. "Equal parts mutations and training. Predators limber before hunts. We both emulate it, and are coaxed into it by virtue of blood."       They broke camp and began the push back up into the snowy mountain. Pruflas followed up as they were on a switchback under light morning wind. "Do you ever wish to be a standard human?"       The pair made it to one of the ancillary peaks, which connected to Great Kestrel by a ridge. Erland widened his gait out to counterbalance against gusting winds as he continued along the snow caps. "I was taught as a whelp the nature of strength. A knight we called the Gryphon. A concept that strength can be used for benefit, for virtue, for no other reason than we can. Now, I help far more people than I ever could as the whelp."       Back on the main body of Great Kestrel, they followed an escarpment that wound around the sides in a spiral. The duke asked: "This Gryphon, was he a witcher?"       "No. A knight errant. I think I might set out to find him when this is over, see if he's still alive. He'd be damned old if he was. That was almost 50 years ago."       Pruflas started. He looked at the back of the witcher in front of him. 50? But . . . "How old are you, Erland?"       "Ah, we age slow. Mutations. I'm . . . let's see . . . probably around 63 or so. No, 61. Somewhere in that area." With a stop, Erland knelt and bid the demon down. "Dragon's sleeping. We're close." He popped a cork off a vial and poured the oil on his silver, using his gloves to coat the blade on both sides. Then he took out a blue potion, unscrewed the cap, and downed the whole thing in one go.       He grimaced as he drew the bottle back from his lips, the veins in his neck and temples already darkening. The duke looked at that with a narrowed focus. "What the hell was that?"       "Ekhidna decoction. I'll need it. If the fight gets real bad, I'll take Ekimmara. Ready up. Gather yourself."       The tramping snow billowed around the pair nearing the crest of the Kestrels, father peak of the range. It was a clear day, and visibility was far into the distant foothills so scant below. Not far enough to see the town of Barefield a day's south. The duke knew this was a good spot. Magia accrued here, easy to feel why the dragon favored the confluence.       The crown of Great Kestrel was flat, ellipsoid mesa of 60-65 paces diameter. As the duke and witcher crested the sides of the mountain, they beheld the sleeping form of the dragon. Erland pantomimed casting magic to start the battle.       So Pruflas began harnessing boughs of magia into a spear. He had formed it around halfway when -- simultaneously -- the dragon suddenly woke from its slumber and the witcher charged forward on impulse. It was in this moment the dragon revealed its telepathy. 'What is this?! Another mage scoundrel! Did you think to catch me unawares?!' Basilisk scrapings clawed inside Pruflas' mind, as the lizard shook off the nightly dusting from its scaled hide.       Erland was beat back as the frost dragon unfurled its mighty wings -- great wingspan of 7 paces -- the gust causing snow to flurry around. It roared into the sky, causing magia to swirl the area, misting and frosting the entire peak. The witcher leaped forward and began to hack at the legs of the serpent, forcing it to glide across the way, banking its massive body in snow.       It reared its head back and fired a breath of crystalline magic, condensing the magia into heavy icicles as they spiraled forward in daggers. Pruflas had to duck down and hold his opposing hand out to divert the magia -- right hand still gathering for the spear. Erland braved the mists by rolling through and ducking a clawed wing swipe. He recovered and cleaved his sword upward, gashing the webbed wing as he spiraled out of the roll.       'Abominations! The both of you!' It tried to fly upward, but could only manage a hop as its left wing was sheared by the witcher. Using its momentum, it tumbled its body into a crushing crescent aimed for Erland. He leaped to the side, flinging his body around as he fired Aard into the snow to boost momentum.       Pruflas had gathered his magia-spear, calling to the beast in Common: "Dragon! Heed this lance and die painless!" He hurled the spear as he shouted, flinging it center mass to the dragon. It spiraled and punched into the great body cavity, making the draconid stumble in pain.       'Lies! You base butchers! After my claws, my blood!' It thrashed about, preventing Erland from advancing closer. The mists it summoned bit into gale winds, strong enough to weather even the magia shield about Pruflas. Visibility worsened, but neither the witcher nor duke were hampered much. With a great undulation along the serpent's body, it whipped the tail in a cleave through the snow, catching Erland and flinging him over 20 paces into a stone jutting from the peak.       Carrying the momentum through, it clawed through the snow toward the demon -- jaws wide and rumbling in the promise of another gout of frost. Pruflas began to run about the ring while he wrapped magia around itself to fling a ball of hellfire at the charging behemoth. It made to tank the blast with its thick scale hide, and immediately afterward the duke's head filled with screeching. 'AAUGH! Vile mages! What accursed sorceries your minds spew!'       The charge abated as it thrashed more violently. Heat from the scalding brimstone melted permafrost between the scales, and visibly steamed the hide around. It let forth a torrent of frost magic at the duke, where no cover existed. He raised both hands out, gathering in them as much warding power as he could muster. The pale aura began to turn increasingly blue and scant as the dragon's breath ripped it over. Down to one knee. The current washed over the duke and his shield. His fingers began to turn red, brighter. Failing.       Howling frost magic gave out suddenly. Erland had recovered and slid underneath the beast, raking his silver along the underbelly. The dragon instinctively pulled away, before flicking the tail around to attempt a whip of the witcher once more. Scratching telepathy filled the pair's heads. 'You are the pests! Not me! You infest our land and slaughter us like we're the invaders! I remember a time when you didn't even exist, you vile wretches!'       Erland pirouetted over the tail this time, his reflexes at their peak. Trailing blood oozed from under the beast as it arced great winged arms to cleave the dancing hunter. Pruflas -- still down -- didn't have the strength to cast more spells at the moment, his strength sapped from a match of raw power.       The witcher performed his grim task. He spun, carving his blade into the beast, again and again; while it groaned and panted with increasing bloodletting-fatigue -- swiping and clawing at the air. It ran out of vim as the hunter-of-monsters never abated in his brutality. The dragon tried to clamp him in the maw of bloodied teeth, and the witcher clambered up the face this presented. He rode the bucking serpent as it tried belatedly shake him off, before the witcher drove his silver through the eye socket to the hilt, twisting it, and then cramming a hand in -- before casting Enhanced Igni.       A guttural exhalation of the death of a great beast echoed the peak of Great Kestrel, as the final telepathic thoughts lightly scratched inside the pair's minds. 'Horrid beasts you are. You call us monsters as you tramp upon our world. Curse you all, you worthless filth . . . '       Howling torrents calmed as the source faded. Pruflas was kneeling in fatigue when a hand proffered itself in front of him. Panting, he looked up into Erland's face. Dark veins knotted the witcher's skin, which was deathly pale. Blood was oozing from his eyes, nose, ears in thin but persistent lines. Dark, unnatural blood.       Erland spit a mouthful aside as he pulled the demon up. "Avoid the blood at all costs. Rich in poisons far worse than Swallow. I don't have any antidotes on me either." He clambered over to the side of the dragon and collapsed into it, sighing out with a wince.       Pruflas walked and knelt near the dragon's head to begin meditating on gathering the ambient magic. He had never been so drained of magia in his life. Disrupted, poisoned, and blocked; yes, but never depleted. Night had fallen beyond his eyelids when the next disturbance made him take a pause from aether-harvesting.       Erland was carving the opposing eye from the beast, blood frozen on his face but veins lighter now.       The duke called out: "What are you doing?"       A grunt and yank of the optical cord, before drawing a dagger across it to snip the eye free. "Proof of contract. I think I'll head out immediately before I have to deal with mercenaries."       Pruflas stood from his meditative stance as the witcher wrapped the eye in a knapsack about the hip. "You have been fair to me, Erland of Larvik." He held a hand out.       Erland took it in his own gloved hand. "Nothing less than the Gryphon's teachings. Shame you don't eat, dragon flesh is some of the best. I'll have to take a cutting as appeasement."       Pruflas laughed as they disengaged. "Not once did you bathe on our journey, you know. You reek like horrific shit."       Erland turned away, hiding a smirk. "I did. When I dove in Buina." The witcher walked to the dragon's tail, beginning to carve into it to take an inner slice of flesh. Pruflas approached and held his hand out when Erland was done.       The witcher watched with curious slit eyes as Pruflas weaved a nigh-imperceptible magia mesh around the flesh. Only the humming eye medallion showed the nature of the new meat. Pruflas held it back, remarking: "Sealed from the outside. It will last far longer than usual now. You can break the seal with your Signs, whichever you think is flashiest."       Erland took the meat with glance up at the starry night, before turning away with a nod.       Pruflas shouted out just as the witcher's head was descending below the crest of the crown: "Good luck on the Path!"       And then the duke was alone again. Only the night winds and dead dragon to keep him company. He walked back to assume meditation next to the corpse. ~31 December 999~ ~Months of gathered magia~ ~Crown of Great Kestrel~ ~Pruflas, demon-in-repose~ The vigil atop Great Kestrel was an affair with solitude, peering among the skeins of Spheri Mundi. On some days he thought of other things, or even walked about. But he always remained in the confluence of power.       The dragon's corpse had freeze-desiccated in the time gone by, hollowed out from sunken flesh, humors dried to husk. The bones reverberated in rich power, which the duke used like a tuning fork to the skein. He would play the bones and watch how the fibres of the world danced -- gleaning for a pattern.       It was on the eve of the millennium when he saw it. Perceived it. A resonance along the net stretching far past his inner vision. The same tonal frequency as what was on Metile's dagger. Him.       He ran back to clutch this fibre, raptly meditating on following the string back to the source. The resonance was there, growing! In between the extremes of the oscillation he could see blurred colors. A swell of emotion formed in the duke's chest. He grit his teeth as he focused on the undulations.       Night had set in and the duke sat motionless. Watching, gathering, waiting. Like a wave in a tub, the roiling skein was bouncing ever so slightly stronger with every repetition. Pruflas' heart thrummed as he glimpsed into Terra beyond. ~Midnight~ ~For just one minute~ ~1 January 1000~ The duke watched as the reverberations yawed, once, twice -- they were slowing! -- and then; the cords snapped. A howl in the midnight peak as the jaws between worlds was rent. He flashed upward to see if it was real.       There in front of him, above the dragon's corpse: a planar vision that sat in the sky like an unnatural angle. No matter how he walked, it appeared to face directly at him. The jaws strained as the vision began to oscillate back closed.       Pruflas leaped up at this in panic. He would not be dissuaded now! He scrambled up the dragon's body as the rim of the yaw shuttered. He leapt up, taking handfuls of the aether and pulling. Up and up he forced himself, eyes burning with vengeance.       The otherworldly groan wicked back to quiet nothingness as midnight passed into the new millennia. Once more, the peak of Great Kestrel was in quiet solitude while the body of the dragon lay in repose. It was a full moon this night, with the great moon casting a calm glow on the now-stilled crown. ~In the tunnel between~ Pruflas' senses were in disarray. Nothing abode sanity. He smelled purple and red, heard pineapple, felt laughter. Only the echoes of a voice in his mind kept him sane. One he never heard before, but something felt assured about hearing it. Made him latch onto the one thing that made sense.       Fate is not immutable. Believe me, I have seen it. I have lived it. My father once denied his own fate and chose a quieter path. Such self-determination -- especially in the face of knowing the consequences -- requires extraordinary effort on one's part. To overcome then the fate of another requires a magnitude of power beyond that. I myself fettered the strands of fate of an entire Universe! Billions -- trillions -- were mine to dash upon the face of 'predetermination.' And still the shadows of my vision remain! This fledgling humanity must be taught a perilous lesson they can never forget. Alas, if they dare to, my Golden Path was doomed from the start.       And one more thing, Moneo! If I told you the depth of my vision, it would terrify you. If I said my eyes peer into the past and bring despair to those before, it would terrify you. If I said my father was trapped in his vision of the future, it would terrify you. And if I said I am now trapped in my vision of the past, . . . what would you do then?