The Last Ember: Chapter I
This is the first piece of the story now known as The Last Ember. Originally conceived as the backdrop for a classic JRPG, it has since been reimagined to claim its place within The Cathartic Archives.
They called it the God-Mound.
Numerous folktales concerning the supposed origins of this enormous, semi spherical hill were told in villages reaching from its surrounding lands all the way to the coast of the Sea of Ice, far to the West. The mood of the tales fluctuated greatly, undoubtedly along with the mood of its tellers.
On dark, rainy nights, huddled close together by the hearth of their favourite inns, farmers spun tales of a dark god once slain by a heroic demigod. Being interred beneath the mound, the Dark One's remains lay slumbering, waiting for the right time to be reborn, instigating the end times of the world as they knew it.
Yet, on a sunny spring day, while hanging the laundry out to dry, mothers would tell very different stories to their fascinated daughters, who sat wide-eyed, listening in awe. They described in detail how a race of tiny gnomes in pointed hats had constructed an entire kingdom deep inside the Mound, their offspring still tinkering away, deep under its soil.
Many claimed their version had been passed down in their families since ages past, presenting this fact as if it was proof of the story's validity. Even so, no official record of any mystical origin was ever recovered, though many scholars kept a watchful eye for mentions on the subject in ancient tomes and scrolls.
The origin of the city built upon the hill, however, could be traced back with greater historic precision. Founded by Osmond Faedir in ages long past, it was re-dubbed Osmond's Crown after the unification of the realm, in honour of his crowning as Osmond the First. Regardless of the historic meaning, little imagination was needed to view the upper part of the city as a crown upon the hill's brow. In a later stage, the common folk started to refer to the city as the City of Stairs. Osmond's grandson Osric had employed some of the finest architects in the region to help realise his visions for Osmond's Crown. Enormous, vaulted stairs were constructed, starting down on the lowest levels and reaching all the way up to the castle area. Designed so they only touched the ground at their upper and lower ends, they seemed to float high over the city streets. It was a marvel to behold.
Three levels were appointed as separate districts, each with their own staircase connecting it to the other.
The lowest was the district of Earth. Here lived the hard-working, yet less wealthy backbone of the city. Carpenters, smiths, weavers, butchers and so on, as well as farmers who worked the fields surrounding the Mound. Dirt roads ran criss-cross between wooden houses and hovels, children played in the fields and roads, mud caked to their clothes as well as their faces and hair. Mothers washed their laundry in big wooden tubs, a smile on their faces at seeing their children's careless joy, a frown in their hearts for worry of empty stomachs.
In the part of the Earth district that lay closest to the Mound, all roads converged into a single, broader, stone pathway. This was the starting point of the main road around which the district of Wind was built. Originating in a time before the Stairs were erected, it veered to the right of the hill and upward, as it encircled the entire Mound, all the way up to the highest district. Broad plateaus were hewn from the outer part of the Mound, creating a number of large neighbourhoods along the Highroad, while others lived somewhat more secluded from these centers, along the road between them, or even higher up against the hill's remaining edge. The buildings generally consisted of grey stone and housed those wealthy enough to avoid days of hard, manual labour and filth, but had no ties to the royals and their entourage. They were mostly artisans, artists, merchants and officiaries, who lived and worked in this middle and largest district.
Finally, at the Crown of the Mound, there stood the district of Sky. Encompassing all on the upper level, it housed the royal and noble families, as well as their retainers and household staff. White marble and lavish decorations were used in the buildings, as well as the vaulted stairs that reached up to this level. At the highest part of the Mound stood the royal palace, its main, obelisk-shaped tower reaching high above the city, like a pale white blade held skyward, gleaming towards the heavens.
A separate set of white stone hallways led directly into the palace and was accessible only to the royal family and their retainers. Soon after construction, rumours started to spread of a powerful Magus assisting in the creation of these wondrous stairs. With these rumours came questions. People wondered, and fantasised, about secrets hidden within the skyward corridors. Some told of unseen steps, useable only by those who knew of their existence, others mentioned stairs reaching up into an undiscovered kingdom which lay atop the clouds. These were some of the least far-fetched ideas. Soon, the City of Stairs became known far and wide, occasionally attracting the odd treasure hunter or fortune seeker aiming to unlock its fabled secrets. Some spent their lives, and their sanity, searching for secret passages in the endless staircases, yet no magical find had ever been reported.
To most inhabitants of the Crown, however, the city in all its splendour and mysteries was foremost their home. Life ran its course as it did in any capital and, though it was a special day, today was not much different in that regard.
A red-tailed hawk flew leisurely over the City of Stairs.
Being fed generously by his master, Claemon kept an eye out for prey purely out of instinct. Soaring high over the grey roofed houses of the city's middle district, he loved the feeling of the wind through his feathers and the air under his wings. On this particular day, the city was already bustling despite the early hour. After the royal army's victory in the recent skirmishes near the northern border, the threat of war had started to wane in people's minds. The returning companies of soldiers of the realm had arrived in the capital the day before and were to be honoured in a ceremony later that day. It would take place in Aelus' Square. This open spot among the many busy workshops of this part of town was named after the legendary alchemist Aelus Huskweaver. It was one of the Wind district's largest squares and so it was used often for this sort of occasions. Any merchant worth his salt knew this would be an exceptionally busy, and thus lucrative day. As such, they were all out and about before the rooster's cry, trying to claim the spot they felt provided the most opportunities to sell their wares. One such merchant hurried down the street, loudly cursing himself for his relative tardiness. In his haste, some apples fell out of the enormous burlap sack he held in his arms. One of them rolled across the street and under the stand of a cheese trader. A big rat, clearly startled by the invasion of its otherwise perfect hiding place, darted out from under it and onto the street. Claemon's sharp eye fixed itself on the critter. In a matter of seconds, he slightly adjusted the angle of his sleek body on the wind and, folding his wings back, plunged towards the cobblestones, grabbing the unfortunate rodent with his talons mid-flight. His prey was dead before realising it was caught. Clutching his catch firmly, he flapped his wings and regained altitude. He looked for a quiet rooftop where he could enjoy his meal while watching the streets below.
It seemed the fruit merchant whom had indirectly supplied Claemon with a juicy snack wasn't the only one in the predicament of arriving later than intended. A young man, dressed mostly in the green and ochre attire of the Royal Guard, tried to make his way past people in the ever more crowded street while affixing his armor's left pauldron.
Comparing the merchant to the young guardsman, one might say the latter had the lesser of hardships, as he had spent the night in the bed of the famously voluptuous daughter of the Black Ladle Inn's proprietor. At the moment however, the sweet memories of the past night were being chased from his mind by the image of his commander, and even more so by the whip which his mind's eye added to the man's already frightening appearance.
He cursed last night's companion, her charming presence clearly the reason he was now rushing down the street, late for his watch. Only to smile again moments later, recollecting the image of her sleeping as he left through her bedroom's window to avoid the inn's titular ladle, and its owner's wrathful hand.
The sight of the handsome guard's uniform reminded Claemon of his master and he took to the skies, heading in the same direction as the armor's wearer.
Towards the royal palace.
Thorn leaned casually on the balcony's banister, looking out over the courtyard below. He watched as the recruits got ready for their morning training, their commander barking orders on how to improve their form. As he watched their clumsy movements, Thorn's mind trailed off, revisiting the events of the past weeks.
A messenger bearing grim news had arrived from the normally quiet Northern border. The beast folk whose homes lay in the lands beyond, and with whom the kingdom had had peaceful relations for several years, had suddenly attacked a number of the border towns near their territory. This unexpected act had forced the inhabitants to flee their homes and seek refuge in towns closer to the capital.
As captain of the royal army, Thorn had led one of the three companies which were sent to investigate and reclaim the lost villages.
The tale of the refugees he had spoken to painted a picture of unbarred anger and vicious behaviour. The invaders slaughtered innocents and destroyed all they encountered on their path. This came as a surprise to the young captain. From personal experiences, he viewed the Therians of the Northern lands as gentle and kind beings. Not all of his countrymen shared his belief, however. They viewed them as wild and savage beasts, fearing them to be a constant threat to their border. Thorn's fear lay with the consequences of these events. There was no doubt in his mind that certain parties would use the attacks to justify their hateful disposition towards the beast folk, which may lead to the fall of the peace there had been between the kingdom and the beast folk for so many years. In any case, he had been determined to uncover the motive behind these acts of aggression and pondered constantly upon these hidden truths. More so because regret lay in his heart for the Therian blood he had been forced to shed.
He spent the day in his chambers, mostly lost in thought. He studied maps and old texts as his mind chaotically sought the pieces missing to help him make sense of the raging storm of war in the middle of which he found himself, and of how it had arrived without any sign of thunder or lightning to warn them of its brewing. All the while, a frantic stream of servants ran to and fro, bringing him ever more tomes and rolls of parchment, requested from the archives housed below the south wing of the castle, as the tendrils of Thorn's thoughts reached further and further from the here and now, hoping to find clues in increasingly obscure pieces of written history. Only when the Twin Suns passed their zenith, and the skies began to darken in hues of purple and orange, did the warrior scholar notice he had spent hours upon hours poring over books of ancient knowledge, history, myths and genealogy. Sighing at his lack of results, he gestured to the remaining servants, indicating they could return the by now impressive collection, and leave him be for the day.
He stepped out onto the balcony once more, his entire body suddenly realizing an urgent need of fresh air as it seemed to wake up from the focused haze of a cognitive trance and being cooped up with dusty tomes all day. The darkening city seemed to slowly come to life, one small, distant light at a time. He loved looking over the seemingly tiny houses at this specific time of day, when the day slowly began turning into night. It brought a sort of calm over him, life meandering forth far below, at the pace of a small brook. In this state of repose, his mind couldn't help but go over all the details of the riddles presented to him once more, yet in a more passive way of processing. Unsurprisingly, he hadn't heard her stepping out onto the balcony from the room behind him. Her bare feet had made only the tiniest of sounds as they touched the cold, white stones beneath them. Gently, she wrapped her arms around his chest, pressing herself warmly against his back. Even through the fabric of the morning attire he hadn't changed out of, he knew the rest of her body was as soft and bare as her delicate feet.
"We missed you at the ceremony today, my captain", she said, love and longing heavy upon her sweet-scented breath.
"Right, the parade in our honour… Though we took the lives we did out of necessity, honourable is far from how it makes me feel…", Thorn replied, the familiar scent of wild peaches and cinnamon slowly ushering his mind back to the present, and to the loving arms of his visitor.
"I understand, my love", she smiled thinly, her respect and love for him only growing, along with a worry–the same worry she felt in the gravity of his words. "Then, as their princess, allow me to thank you in name of our people, for the strength of your arm and your heart", she added as she shifted her focus from worries of things far away, towards the love she held in her heart.
He caressed her hands and arms ever so lightly, took her wrists softly in his hands and spun around in her arms. Embracing his lover, he looked deep into her big, blue eyes and kissed her. She grabbed his hand and led him back into his room. The night was one filled with passion and the hot, sweaty embrace of lovers separated, unsure they would ever again feel each other’s warmth upon their skin. Death was not uncommon in Thorn’s daily routine and the secret nature of their relations made every parting taste even more bitter. However, this also meant each moment spent together was sweeter, every lustful look and secretly loving smile more meaningful and intense. They knew it could all end in the blink of an eye. So, of course they treasured it all beyond measure.
As the suns cast their first, pink glow across the sky, she kissed him gently on the brow. She made sure not to wake him, as he undoubtedly had another eventful day in front of him. Better to let him rest, not risking his sword hand to waiver at a critical moment. She looked at the sight of her lover sleeping for a moment longer and left through the secret passage they had discovered together, almost a year ago now.
In a dream, Thorn fought the battles of the past days over and over. The ferocious beasts assaulting their ranks again and again, like ocean waves crashing upon the shores. The frenzied warriors fell before him, one by one. He remembered each of their faces, and each one seemed to be ripped apart in front of him in a puff of red mist. As his sword cuts down the white panther, he wakes forcefully from his sleep. The red blood he was soaked in moments ago replaced by the night’s cold sweat. The suns’ first golden rays fell in through the balcony entry. He held his head in his hands. He had never enjoyed slaying others in battle, though necessity often demanded it. Yet, this time, he could not get rid of the knot tied in the pit of his stomach. Something felt different. Something was wrong. He decided he needed to talk to the beasts’ leadership. Though, he did not quite know how he would manage it. He settled on starting with some breakfast. Everything might get clearer with some food in his stomach.
And thus, he set out towards the Black Ladle, where he hoped to encounter eggs, bread, bacon, perhaps some ale, and mostly, his fellow captain and best friend Thibalt.
