The Comfort of a Good Book, or, an Entire Library
It did little good, trying not to think about it. In the days and weeks after the battle, dark images of raging goblins and pillaging Easterlings tormented Eschelon’s mind, as a sense of dread and disquiet overcame him. Everywhere he glanced, frightful beasts of Balcoth the Conqueror’s army haunted him, and he could not rectify the lives lost at the Siege of Summershaw, innocent villagers and free folk he gladly called friends.
To escape the horrors, and perhaps reclaim a sense of self that had been lost, Eschelon fled to a familiar place, both spiritually and physically: books. He said his farewells to the brave fighters of his troupe, Ho-Gun and Roderick and Araphant, all of them chasing their own demons the only way they knew how, through the tips of their swords. Vargas would travel back to Dale, and Eschelon knew he would he would achieve that goal, for little dimmed the spirit of his jolly companion. Only Vandre truly surprised him. The swordsman would stay in Summershaw, helping the townsfolk rebuild, and reforming a knight’s guard of sorts to protect the bridge. It was still strange to see though, Eschelon thought, a fighter with such prowess, so secluded and alone all the time, isolated, too often lost in his own thoughts. For some time, Eschelon had sensed a growing fog over his friend’s emotions, due in no small part to the Dragon’s scale Vandre seemed unwilling - or unable - to relinquish.
It was unwise to keep so sacred a thing which had touched such catastrophe. But in spite of this knowledge - or perhaps because of it - Eschelon himself became near obsessed with The Book Of Letters, and the strange, ancient writing inscribed therein.
The travel back to Anghor Thom would be uneventful, save for a brief interlude at the ruins of the Aviary. It seemed everywhere he traveled, he couldn’t escape the darkness swallowing the path he and his companions followed. Upon entering Anghor Thum though, Eschelon was greeted by his teacher and friend, Mantor, head of the library and the most knowledgeable scholar in all of Greater Anghor.
Mantor showed him in from the cold and to a large table scattered with papers like battle debris, announcing “We’ve made tremendous progress on the letters and tomes you unearthed in the basement of that tavern you and your friends own.”
Almost immediately, Eschelon’s spirits lifted at the thought of research, studying, and glorious reading, unwinding the mysteries of the ancients. However, it was just this passion that would sink him further into despair. Hours spent over the next weeks, sometimes Mantor by his side guiding, but many others alone, with an and unyielding drive to decipher the language hidden with the characters and words on faded letters and tablets.
The effort would pay off though when he and Mantor deciphered not only the main part of the Book, but through the use of the translation guide obtained after great effort from the scoundrel Grady McCreary, breathed life into the ancient language of Angric. A strange vernacular with challenging syntaxes, the two scholars realized no tenses existed in the dialect. All Angric phrases and sentences are present tense, which makes understanding its history even more difficult.
Elated, Mantor and Eschelon shared this discovery with the monks and librarians, but much to their dismay, the findings seeped out even further, until throughout Anghor, it became widely known not only was Angric decipherable, but perhaps, the acquisition of articles, books, or any communication bearing the old language could lead to fortunes. The hunt was on for any and all written parchment that bore even the slightest fragments that could now be translated, and maybe, a guide to ancient riches or current collectors.
Of special issue for Eschelon, was McCready’s entrance back into the fray. Everywhere they looked, one of his minions purchased, absconded, or otherwise strong-armed their way into more and more of the the coveted items.
In the midst of this chaos, Eschelon searched even further to unravel another mystery, the elimination of the runes adorning his and his friends’ arms, markings making them particularly weak to all forms of fire.
Incurred during the incorrect incantation of the Lemuralia ritual, the runes appear to glow a faint red at night, and the inexplicable pain they all felt even from campfires had proven to be near unbearable.
To Eschelon’s surprise however, the history of such types of curses were intertwined with his own history, and in fact, the story the ghost of his grandfather bestowed upon him during that very same ritual.
The Bruhl Bleeders, a troop of feared, near mythical, deadly orcs who were known to have roamed the countryside in the first age, pillaging and murdering their way to riches, glory, and unimaginable pain and suffering. Leobald, Eschelon’s grandfather, spoke of these dastardly evil doers when he appeared during Lemuralia. They are the key (or perhaps the cause?) of Eschelon’s parents death.
With Mantor’s assistance though, they found a start. Stories of old speak of the Maiar, spirits descended from beyond the realms of man who once helped the Valar form the very foundations of the Earth. Though mythical, through their recent translations of Angric, they believe the remnants of on of these Maiar may reside somewhere in Anghor.
The pages speak of one call Neitholin, a benevolent being that could lead them to the Bleeders, perhaps a solve for their curse, and ultimately, maybe even clues to who, or what, took Eschelon’s family from this world.
His research thus completed, Eschelon and Mantor hope to find a few more books that could reveal the location of Neitholin, and begin the next part of their intellectual journey. If only Grady McCreary and his goons could be more accommodating!
