Malcear Balfier: Fueling the Fire

Of all concepts manufactured by human thinking, “The end justifies the means” must truly be the most sinister.

Flame Disciple Duxx walked with the slow tenuousness that spoke gravely of his destination. The long chambers of the Temple of Skylight were washed in the flickering silver light of enchanted torches hanging from metal chains that seemed to be swallowed by the darkness of the high ceilings. His footsteps echoed down the corridors, chased by the sound of tiny metal wheels against stone. He pushed a heavy iron cart before him.

At first glace, it would appear to be covered in devices of malicious nature, small handled tools with sharp blades and long hooks. Vials of acrid chemicals in all colors of the spectrum. A single iron statuette of a candle, which bore a magical silver flame hovering inches over the sculpted wick. The light it cast, seemed to Duxx, to be darkest of all. But the servants of Noreal do not torture. They do not interrogate, or dissect. These were tools used in a ritual. Some would consider it a much worse fate than torture.

The young man pushed on into the last chamber, fully cast in the light of hovering orbs, like stars floating in the mock ether of the dark blue painted rotunda ceiling. It was the private temple of The High Immolator, master of the priests of Skylight. The man himself, statuesque in his long midnight robes and silver chains leaned against a colossal book case. His pensive slouch erected into stoic attentiveness at the sight of Duxx.

“High Immolator Brule, here is the last of it. Everything is.... prepared. He rests in the lower chambers. The others have been informed of their task. Those who refused have been sequestered. We await your orders.”

The tall man closed the book he had been reading, and left it on the shelf. Folding his tiny spectacles, and tucking them into his robes, he moved to meet his Disciple, and placed a comforting hand upon his shoulder.

“Young Duxx, your voice is full of uncertainty, which is understandable. All I ask of my followers is to trust in the judgments I have made. They are my burden to bare, and there is no fear in following the orders of the Goddess. I have heard her voice in the flames. The song tells a dark tale, and it is our task to prevent these grim divinations from coming to fruition.”

“Master, we all believe in your visions. We have heard of the great darkness forming outside The Wheels, and the fire that will consume our next generation. It is an honor to be chosen to help prevent it, but the boy--”

“The boy has a part to play. His path is already mapped. It is crucial to ensure he is given all he needs to seek the true flame, and bring a peace that only Noreal can promise.”

“Yes High Immolator, the importance is clear to me, but this ritual... He is so young. He hasn't the developed mind to give himself over to faith.” The words shook from him. He was terrified of Immolator Brule, and the thought of questioning his orders seemed unthinkable, but the fears bubbled up out of him. “If he chose another path....”

“HE WILL NOT CHOSE ANOTHER PATH!” Brule's anger and frustration seemed to make the Star Orbs glow brighter. “Duxx, you have to believe that I have considered all options. I've prayed, and speculated, and rationalized this for the last year. There is no room for error in our actions. There is no leaving this up to fate. Our Goddess needs this servant to have no falter in his devotion. Only his pure commitment will suffice for the tasks he must face.”

“Of... of course, Immolator. I just don't understand. Is there power in faith and devotion to the Goddess, if it isn't found naturally? Is free will really the sacrifice required to produce such a devotee?”

Brule dropped his arms in a gesture of resigned defeat. He rubbed his tired eyes, and looked upward to the tapestry of night that danced above them.

“He has to serve the silver flame. Even the smallest chance of his conversion to another, or worse yet, the chance of him turning to evil could mean the end of us all. He is young enough that it will seem natural. He will believe that he chose the faith himself, that he was raised believing in the teachings. His dedication will be beyond that of even myself. Please understand, Duxx. I don't take this task lightly. It will be possibly the hardest thing I've ever done. He is a special child. He could become a great man with age, but we simply have to ensure that the man he DOES become, will serve his purposes.”

“Then... then he will be a great hero?” Asked Duxx hopefully, looking for a silver lining to a cloud of ambiguous deception.

“He will accomplish great things, yes. He will lend his hand to saving this land, if he is strong enough. He wont be alone, but the flame must be his to bare. I wish I could say that he will be honored, and praised for his great deeds, but the visions are quite clear. In the end, the flame he will use to save and unite us, will consume him.”

“Consume him? He's going to be killed by the true flame? After all we are doing?”

“The vision isn't clear on his fate after all is said and done, but he will be consumed. We've spoken of this enough. The stars are right, and the boy wont remain in his state for long. We must begin sculpting the future of our world, starting with the heart and mind of this chosen child. The end will justify the means.”

As Disciple Duxx took the cart back down into the deepest chambers of the Temple of Skylight, he kept chanting it to himself, like a Mantra. “The end will justify the means. The end will justify the means.”

Malcear Balfier: Once Step at a Time

Years of hard training, of both the body and the mind, had embedded in Malcear a natural aversion to anger. It dulled one's senses, made you lose focus, and usually ended in poor judgment.

At this very moment, Malcear was pissed off.

Fooled by some high lord's cowardly farce. Lord Nivin had been bought, and a price has been put on the heads of the lantern bearers. A man who had no doubt been in many battles, known true honor, and ruled the Riverlands had been reduced to a well dressed sell-sword. Malcear was beside himself.

Not only had Nivrin put them underground, but he sicked his assassin dogs on his allies. They were traveling with Malcear as a favor. This was his journey, and they showed great courage in helping him. Now they were stuck in a cemetery dungeon with him, surrounded by abominations of flesh.

The Flesh-Shaper. That name had been heard several times now. This place reeked of a laboratory for perverted dark magics. What kind of a noble leader would let such horrors of undeath be practiced knowingly so close to the town? To harbor them, hide them, and utilize them for his own gain?

He grit his teeth and cleared his lungs of the last of the acrid smoke from the explosion of chemicals bombs. He gripped his rage like the reigns of a bucking stallion. It was time to focus, not lose control. He needed to feel his goddess. He had to see his path of purpose here. He had to stay calm.

He was going to kick down every door of this dungeon, find the “Flesh-Shaper,” and stop his wicked practices by any means necessary.

He was going to get his friends out of this dangerous dungeon and get back on the road to the North.

He was going to find the true flame of Noreal, and return to Corllace, and unite the separate churches under one cause.

But the biggest thing on his mind right now was to serve justice to Lord Nivin. He would make him answer for his crimes. No title, no number of soldiers, no prestige or fortress would stop him from confronting Nivin again. He would die trying, if he must. He wanted to snuff the flame of Noreal by burying it underground? He would show him how brightly it could truly shine.

He gripped his Scimitar, focused his ambition, and fell in step with the percussive tune that seemed now to play at all times in the back of his mind. 

Malcear Balfier: Song of Starlight

The further North Malcear traveled, the louder the music became.

The question that plagued him was whether the music was in his mind, or he was actually hearing it?

Malcear never complained to his friends about the long nights he spent awake, wrapped in a cold cloth of Arcane magic that Gasadriel had draped on him. (Arcane magic had always felt cold to him, like bare skin against steel) A spell to keep him feeling rested, but it also kept him from falling asleep. He was the best choice for a night watchman. He could see in the dark, he had keen eyes, and if anything snuck up on him, he could handle it long enough to wake up his allies. It was an honor to protect his friends. That being said, a week without sleep did things to his mind. The constant awareness. The heightened sense of time passing. No darkness. No closed eyes dreaming and forgetting reality. Not even for a moment. And the music.

The source of the music was difficult to pinpoint. The style of the music was near impossible to describe. It seemed to drift downward all around him, like a soft snow of tinkling bells, and a light wind of choral voices. The percussion came from within his chest. The campfire danced to the beat. He could swear it was burning silver tonight.

It felt as though he had heard this music his whole life. It had always been there, swirling and arching, even when he was a child. The thought seemed slightly mad, but he couldn't shake the truth of it. It was only now in his life he became aware of it. He could identify the changes. Read into the meaning.

“It's coming from the stars.” He decided one night. “Each one has a voice, and their choir compels me.”

While his friends slept, he used the privacy of night and nature to indulge the seeming madness he was feeling. Malcear would move away from the camp, never far so as to keep a guardians vigilance, but at a distance where a waking pair of eyes wouldn't see his strange ritual. He danced.

If ever there was a word to describe a man, graceful was Malcear's. He danced in slow circles. He re-enacted the sword forms he learned in his daily lessons. They seemed now more like a dance than a means of fighting, used in such a way. His scimitar cut silently through crisp night air in wide vibrant radials around him. It moved like cloth, not steel. It felt weightless. His feet shifted with meticulous precision. His arms and legs rising and falling. Eyes closed. Ears drinking in the music of starlight. The beat of his heart and the pulsing rhythm of the choir growing to a forte that pounded the blood in his ears. His sword was a conductors baton. His force of will, an orchestra.

Holding his eyes shut so tightly prevented him from seeing the small white flames that licked off of his body, ever so lightly, casting his dancing shadow in every direction.

What was he becoming?