A Story of Vesser Highmore the Greater
Tuesday. I forget the date. I’ll have to ask someone later.
We parted ways. The gentlemen I have come to know as my closest friends happen to be the busiest men I have ever met. I suppose I have quite a bit to do as well. It’s funny; as I sit in this warm tavern in Novacek, greeted by many who know me as a hero, I cannot help but feel lonely. Kastus took Leighton back to his homeland to fight the war he knew of for so long, and George left to tend to his company. Kastus, bless that man, has finally been freed and deserves the time he has now. I don’t know why I haven’t returned home yet. I could just open a portal and be back to whatever I have left there. Maybe I refuse to believe Bogurt is dead. I guess I’ve been waiting for weeks now.
I feel guilty, really. These fine people don’t want to let me pay for anything. I’ve had to slip gold on the counter when leaving a shop more times than I can count. I’ve learned the language, at least. Kastus would be proud. I can’t really tell if I feel resentful for everyone leaving, or if I am just stuck in a time where we were all together. For everything that we’ve been through, it seems like only yesterday that we, despite everything mounted against us, took time to sit down and eat, laugh, and remember what we were fighting for. We stopped the Frost. We won. Why are so many things still wrong with the world?
Vesser woke up to a particularly warm morning, at least for Novacek. He had grown used to the cold, often taking time to sit outside and enjoy the chill breeze. However, the druid rose with a newfound conviction. He had waited long enough. He was going home. He paid the innkeeper handsomely, saying his final goodbyes to the regulars he had come to befriend. One last stop. He briskly walked to the palace, where Queen Viara graciously accepted his visit. It was seconds after his knee touched the ground when Viara uttered wisely, “You must have come to say your goodbyes.” “I have, your Majesty.” There was a silence that felt longer than it was, as both held a solemn expression on their faces. Viara spoke first. “Thank you, friend. You must understand, you will always be welcomed when you return.” Vesser said nothing, politely bowing his head. He stood tall and left, making for the courtyard. An adolescent fir tree stood decorated with memorials and trinkets; Vesser noticed each held a name. A silver coin with Bogurt’s name swayed in the wind, alongside the others thought to be missing or dead. The solemn druid stood for a moment, closed his eyes, and grasped the knots in the bark, and imagined home for the first time in years. It was a brisk day in northwestern Ulnost. The druidic city was quieter than usual, with most taking care to wear coats to combat the northern winds. The courtyard near the Sanctum of Dreams grew especially cold, if only for a moment. A great willow oak stood tall, hundreds of years old. As a magical cold surged in the courtyard, Vesser the Greater and several members of the Councils ran outside the Sanctum, ready to weather whatever could be happening. The great willow cracked open, and an otherworldly cold burst forth. Vesser the Lesser stepped through, and the chill subsided. An aghast crowd formed, and for many moments Vesser and his father just looked at each other, tears welling in their eyes. What could they say? For the young druid, he had not been home in over a decade. He feels guilt, happiness, and worry all at the same time. Choking up, he uttered “How could I not have written you more?” Vesser, a man who has just saved the world, realized how much he just wanted to go home. His father’s proud stature shattered, embracing his son for what felt like a lifetime. “Thank the heavens you’re alright. I thought- it’s been weeks.” They both stood. “Father.” The word was rusty on Vesser’s tongue. “I am home, truly. There is so much we have to discuss.” Vesser the Greater smiled proudly. “Come, my son. Let us go inside. Tell me everything.” And so the story of Vesser the Lesser was told, in earnest, for the first time. From strange voices in Barracksmouth and new companions to his very own death at the hands of Rathwress, the boy spared no detail. “My boy. You have endured far more than any man should have to. I am so sorry I was not there.” Vesser looked up to his father. “You aren’t angry? I destroyed the Dreamstride. I ruined our source of magic for revenge.” “My son, have I ever told you how your mother truly died?” Vesser’s mother passed away before he was old enough to remember her. His father had told him about how she was loving, beautiful, and most of all wise beyond her years. He was told she had died of illness, taken by a plague carried by a foul shipment of supplies. As his father spoke, the young druid’s gaze grew more serious, then confused, and then defeated. His mother was a commander of a sect of Ulnosti rangers tasked with patrolling the borders of Eastwythe. After the region fell to the fey, she was often away from home, keeping the borders safe. Her vessel disappeared while sailing too far north on the eastern shores of Eastwythe. “Why wouldn’t you tell me this?” he asked. “You know why.” For a moment, Vesser was upset. However, in an event that can only stem from the boy’s newfound wisdom, he understood. “So this is why you’ve kept the Drowned Road open.” Vesser the Greater looked upon his son with a desperate gaze. “I could never bring myself to close what could be her only way home. And in my selfishness, the Prince of Jet gave us a year to wait for our destruction. I do not blame you for breaking our connection to the Dreamstride, Vesser. But as of now, we are defenseless. You deserve all the rest in the world, my boy; however it would seem I can once again do nothing but ask for your help. You saw through the Amber Lord’s manipulation. You pioneered a magic that can free us from the Ela. It would seem, son, that you are Vesser the Lesser no more. People are going to confuse us, aren’t they, Vesser the Greater?” “I know exactly where to start, father. I will bring everyone. Lesser and Greater councils alike. On the morning sunrise, make sure to bring your coats. You all have a mountain to meet.” His father smiled from ear to ear. “Very well, Grandmaster.”
Donnegal had been hard at work. What used to be a hovel meant to shield him from the Ela was now a homely abode, lit with the glimmering opal he had been collecting. It was recently that he, under the guidance of Vesser, began to reach an awakening not unlike his teacher months prior. He meditated, listening to the whispers in the snow and the low rumble of the mountain he now called his home. It was what he would later call the first mornings of his life he truly felt at peace. He could not help but remember the trials he endured to attain the land’s respect; it must have been days he spent climbing to the peak of Tempest’s Reach. The roaring, thunderous voice of the Elder guarding its apex still rang in his head. The old staffmaker’s trance was interrupted by a familiar rumbling in the back of his mind. “Donnegal, old friend. Are the preparations complete?” He chuckled, still in awe of the language he now used to speak with the young druid. “Ah, Vesser! I was wondering when you’d contact me. Yes, we have plenty of Opals.” Donnegal then looked towards a bedframe holding a small gnome. “And our mutual friend is ecstatic to help.” Vesser’s voice rang once again. “Wonderful. Let Tiddlemar know you two will have plenty of visitors soon.” At this, magic in the air surged forth; the loud, primordial rumble gave way to a grand portal opening through a large spruce tree nearby. Donnegal beheld the largest congregation of druids since the Fall of Eastwythe, and he was about to help free each and every one of them from a legacy of manipulation by the feywild. He couldn’t help but smile. Upon their greeting, Vesser began to speak. He spoke of change, peace and action. It was as if Donnegal was looking at someone fundamentally different from the boy he helped up the mountain months ago. The old man’s face grew darker as Vesser then spoke of what he would make into an official trial. “I ask that all of you, Lesser and Greater alike, forget this divided nature of our councils. This mountain, whom Donnegal has named Tempest’s Reach, is home to a being closer to the earth itself than anything I’ve ever beheld. The Elder guards the peak of this mountain, and you, like Donnegal and I, must convince it to allow you entry.” At this, Vesser and Donnegal undid the sleeves of their coats, revealing the Opalite tattoos Tiddlemar had inscribed. “This is the first step. I will be with you every step of the way.” At this, the gnome happily greeted Vesser and his father, then took his tools and got to work.
The newly appointed Grandmaster of the Councils held a smile. The first days on Tempest’s Reach were an uneasy few; most of these men and women had never been this far north. As time passed, however, a peaceful warmth settled over the druids. The group of sixty now all shared the same stone markings on their arms, including the eccentric gnome Tiddlemar. Vesser’s father tapped his shoulder. “It seems change comes in many forms, Vesser. How did a gnomish fellow come to join us?” Before the boy could speak, Tiddlemar heartily spoke up. “Well, one of us needs to teach the young ones how to draw these markings. Such a marking takes an artisan’s touch. And, well… You’ve inspired me, boy. I will happily follow your vision. You truly have something here.” The fateful day came. What was once a nervous congregation of druids far from home was now a sight to behold. The men and women of Briar Glen climbed thousands of steps to the apex of Tempest’s Reach. Vesser’s father beheld a magical sight, as not a word was spoken for the entire journey. Was it nerves? What were our people thinking about? Is that boy Dartian doing alright? He was always the more gaunt of his brothers. Just as the former Grandmaster began to worry, the whirling tempest gave way to the clearest, most incredible sky he had ever seen. Not a cloud in the heavens was to block this spectacle. Stars dotted the black canvas above the Councils. Small meteorites burned up on Heimaalin’s atmosphere, illuminating the tundra for moments. The moon sat low in the sky, waiting for the page in history about to be written. A deep, rumbling form broke the silence. Vesser stood ready, almost eager to weather the ancient elemental as he once did. But the Elder, terrifying in its power and wisdom, approached gently, as if the group was in the eye of a hurricane. The skies stayed clear. What Vesser and Donnegal remembered as a violent, whirling being of magic was… smiling? And in the minds of each and every member of the newfound Circle of the Voice rang a single, primordial thought. “Finally.”
Briar Glen was quiet for months. The weather turned for the better, fresh crops began to flourish, and the city rested, awaiting the deluge of merchant caravans that the fine spring often beings. However, the druids were nowhere to be found. The runic gateway to the Drowned Road sat unprotected, as it had been since the loss of the Dreamstride. Vesser’s return was triumphant. He and the Circle of the Voice he led now stood at the facade of the Sanctum of Dreams. Gazing upon their formal home, the druids had reached a consensus. The Archives were saved; only a fool would discard centuries of history. After the matter resolved, Vesser stood in front of his students, uttering a simple phrase. “Let us rebuild.” At this, the Grandmaster’s magic surged; he struck his fist deep into the stone, shattering the Sanctum’s ornate walls and supports in one fell swoop as the Amber Lord had brutally done decades prior. The druids would then look to the people of Briar Glen, hiring artisans and contractors to assist in the construction of what would become the Temple of Stone. It was not long after that the livelihood of the druids was close to what it used to be; the Temple was a place of study, meditation, and healing. Many members of the Circle of the Voice, likely advised by Vesser, took a more active role in the community, seeking out the impoverished or ill to improve life in Briar Glen. Aspiring members surged, and many members took on apprentices. By the end of the month, sixty druids had become two hundred. Days passed, ambitions grew, and news from Leighton was weighing on Vesser’s mind. He left his home, and took a brisk walk to enjoy the morning. In the Temple of Stone sat an enormous, masterfully cut Prase Opal. Vesser’s father was meditating. The boy spoke, breaking the silence. “I know you’ve always hated interruptions, but surely you know why I visit.” Opening his eyes, the sagely druid sighed. “We cannot fight a war for him.” “As my father and most trusted advisor, surely you understand what’s at stake. We are a growing and influential group. You even took a position as an advisor to Lord Anseil. He listens to you. We need to help Leighton.” “What would you have me do, my son? Convince Lord Anseil to declare war on Lagona? It would be a full-scale war. All of Ulnost would be caught up in this. I know you want to help your friend, but politically, our hands are tied. What would it look like if the most concentrated magical prowess in Ulnost independently joined forces with House Allister?” The gaze Vesser’s father held was respectful, but serious. He was talking to his son, not his Grandmaster. Vesser understood that. “You know I can’t sit by and do nothing. I have an idea.” His father sat back in his seat. “What? Grandmaster, please don’t do anything stupid. You are more powerful than you assume. You’ll actually start a war.” “I know. Trust me.” A monarch butterfly, the Grandmaster’s familiar, fluttered in the wind, passing by a messenger hawk destined for Leighton. Vesser’s plan was in motion.
“Dartian. You and your brothers have trained well. I trust you received the assignment I sent you?” Dartian was born into a comfortable family in Briar Glen. His father was elven; similar to his three brothers, he shared elven traits. It was difficult for his family, being cut off from the Dreamstride where his ancestors drew strength. Despite this, his lineage was strong-willed; his family was one of the few able to resist the depravity borne of Eastwythe’s fall. He and his siblings joined the Lesser Council after the Amber Lord was banished and druidic magic was thought to be no more. They had been inspired by Vesser the Greater’s leadership through those hard times, and knew their calling was to help in any way they could. Months of studying gave way to the return of the Grandmaster’s son, a member of the emergent Argent Company. Vesser’s son was a druid, and should have had nothing with which to draw the strength needed to command such powerful magic. The advent of the new Grandmaster brought hope into the four brothers. How could they not follow him? They were not proud of their fey ancestry; it led to thousands of lost lives, and the ruin of his parents’ reputation. A new form of druidic magic? Primordial? The brothers had to learn more. Their Grandmaster had taken them to Tempest’s Reach. The mountain was perilous, and in the beginning the cold felt as biting as a dagger. He could not help but be skeptical of the strange, fluorescent stones Vesser handed them. “It’s a lovely stone, Master. You would like us to… listen to it?” He looked at Donnegal, curious as to why such an old staffmaker had spent so much time here. Weeks later, the brothers understood. The earth was not unlike the Oaks they read about; the origin of their own druidic language bore the same inspiration and thought, albeit easier to understand, as the mountain they studied. The whispers and hums meant something, as if they had been waiting to be heard for millenia. The Grandmaster was incredible. Caught daydreaming, Dartian was a bit embarrassed. “Yes, sir. We are to make for the Autumnvale?” A serious gaze from Vesser commanded their attention. “You will meet Lord Leighton Allister, a man who, aside from being one of my closest friends, is the finest military commander and gentleman I have ever met. You are all incredible men, and I trust you will take care of one another. Help the forces of House Allister as healers. Tend to their wounded. Bless the harvests of their homeland. Take as much pressure off of my old friend as you can. However, politics seem to restrict me more than I wanted. This must be a task carried with discretion. As such, you cannot wear the broach of our Circle.” The brothers felt their heartbeats hasten at the chance to test themselves. “We won’t let you down, Master.” Vesser then smiles, handing them a jar, containing a familiar monarch butterfly. “Take David with you. Leighton will know it’s me. And please… say hello for me.” The brothers left, gathering fine horses at the eastern stable. They rode forth, the first of many missions the druids would perform in service of Vesser’s old friend.
It was a calm morning in Briar Glen, and the Grandmaster strode the halls of the Temple. Vesser faced an elaborate door. It stood behind the main hall, with the crest of the Argent Company burned into the stained oak. For the first time in several months, he stepped into the Dwersik. A familiar space opened itself to him, filled with memories and trinkets gathered from the adventures he shared with his companions. Half-expecting Kastus to be sitting by the fire, Vesser could not help but feel saddened. Breathing in for a moment, he then made for his quarters and set to work. The young druid had achieved substantial magical prowess, and was now once again a pioneer of dangerous, powerful forces. Hidden in a secret compartment was a shard of a mirror. He stuffed it in his bag and returned to the Temple. “Vesser, you must think about this. That thing killed you once. Who’s to say it won’t try again?” The boy placed his hands on the balcony, stretching his back with a slight sigh. “I cannot speak for Rathwress’ intentions, father. However, I made a promise. A promise, I may add, I made after holding quite the conversations with him. I am not entirely sure what this could bring upon the world, but I believe I can call him a friend.” For a while, his father stood silent, admiring the end of the day’s sunrise. “I know I cannot convince you otherwise. You must at least let me come with you.” “This may be the only time I cannot do what you ask. You must understand why I need to do this alone. This is between him and I.” “If I was not your father, I would forbid it, Vesser. But you have proven yourself to be a man far beyond your years, if not mine as well. Very well. I trust you.” Vesser had not visited Sinopa since the siege of Wanamekwa. With a certain conviction written on his face, the druids beheld their Grandmaster as he imagined the ancient Drevinsik temple upon the peaks of the Sinopan highlands. For a moment, it was still; some blinked and missed it. The great willow oak in the square opened brightly, and Vesser stepped through, continents away from home. It was warmer than Vesser expected. The bustle of his home drained into the stark quiet accompanied by the dark stone temple he now beheld once more. Vesser would not dare perform what he planned within its sacred walls, but he wished to be as close to the leyline of magic held here as possible. The druid then leaped, and his boots gave way to talons, assuming the form of a hawk to soar to a nearby mountain. Clad once again in the ornate robes of the Argent Company, Vesser listened for a while. He wrote in his journal. He even took a sip of the famous, strong Sevnoni liquor Kastus taught him to love. The wind carried his thoughts, and it was this wind he now commanded. He closed his eyes, and a single word rumbled in the skies above the western subcontinent. “RATHWRESS.” Vesser laughed, remembering a joke he told his old shipmate Drez over a year ago. He had made camp at the peak of this mountain, waiting for what was almost three days. On the night of the third, the full moon and starry clear sky blanketed the Sinopan mountains with a calming teal starlight. The druid listened, his heartbeat slowing as his mind drew into meditation. This calm display was interrupted by the starlight giving way to shadow and wind. A great blackened form descended upon the apex of Vesser’s mountain, its claws effortlessly burrowing into the permafrost. The ancient dragon’s voice rumbled with a similar terrifying resonance Vesser used to call him. “The boy with the golden hair, alone again in this shattered nation. Why have you called me?” The young druid could not help his smile, once again beholding the beast that slew him. “It is good to see you as well, old friend. Do you not miss our conversations as I do?” “Little druid. I would lie if I said you are not an amusing one.” Rathwress’s golden eyes narrowed, and his aged form grew smaller as he exhaled. “But that is not why you called out to me.” A moment or two passed, and a singular cloud blocked the calming starlight as Vesser beheld the dragon’s form. Rathwress had looked better; with the source of his immortality gone, the ancient dragon was very much so. A gentle rasp could be noticed from his breathing. Without his help, it was likely Vesser would not see Rathwress again. “I want to fulfill my promise.” The druid produced the shard of Grandmama’s phylactery he kept safe for this moment. “Meditate with me. I have something to show you.” “Hmm. Honor walks with you, little one.” After some consideration, the dragon curled into a dark crescent, almost as if to sleep for the night. His head bowed towards Vesser, resting his nose inches away from his old friend. The campfire was stoked, and the calm druid tossed the mirror’s shard into the blaze, whispering a Druidic prayer. “Listen. Hear the fire burn away this memory of yours.” May we only hope the earth gives back what you have stolen. Time.” Rathwress had never experienced something like this. Had this been any other human, he would have laughed, crushing their weak form like an ant. Recent months, however, granted the dragon fatigue. He was tired, and this was a feeling he had not known in his long existence. Perhaps he truly was to die. Hope was not what drove Rathwress to meet with Vesser, but a feeling that felt rusty in his age. Trust. He then felt a thought whisper in his mind, feeling as surprising and familiar as one looking into a mirror for the first time. He remembered placing his essence in that witch’s phylactery, and just as quickly the memory burned away, replaced by the crackling of a campfire and the glimmering beauty of starlight. His regrets took shape, only to be purified by the fire this young human cultivated. This boy was beyond anything he had seen in a human before. Vesser entered a deep trance, and beheld the very voice of the mountain he sat on. “He deserves redemption,” he said. “Slow his time as you did for me.” Weeks passed, and the mountain answered with a presence he didn’t know to be possible. “AND SO HE SHALL LISTEN AS WE DO. IT IS DECREED.” The two awoke. Vesser felt weaker and more spent than he ever had. The green aura once hanging high in the heavens now wrapped around the ancient dragon’s form, and moments later it vanished. Old wounds and scars closed on Rathwress’ body. Holes in his wings sealed shut. Broken teeth and claws were restored anew. The dragon felt more alive than he had in millennia. He could still sense his old age, but now his death felt much, much further. “Perhaps it is now that I can speak to you in earnest. You truly are remarkable, old friend. Be well, Vesser Highmore. You have an ally in me for as long as you live, and beyond.” The dragon took off, breathing in the atmosphere as if for the first time. Vesser smiled, ate a meal, and took a well-deserved rest. He should return home tomorrow. FIN
Vesser woke up to a particularly warm morning, at least for Novacek. He had grown used to the cold, often taking time to sit outside and enjoy the chill breeze. However, the druid rose with a newfound conviction. He had waited long enough. He was going home. He paid the innkeeper handsomely, saying his final goodbyes to the regulars he had come to befriend. One last stop. He briskly walked to the palace, where Queen Viara graciously accepted his visit. It was seconds after his knee touched the ground when Viara uttered wisely, “You must have come to say your goodbyes.” “I have, your Majesty.” There was a silence that felt longer than it was, as both held a solemn expression on their faces. Viara spoke first. “Thank you, friend. You must understand, you will always be welcomed when you return.” Vesser said nothing, politely bowing his head. He stood tall and left, making for the courtyard. An adolescent fir tree stood decorated with memorials and trinkets; Vesser noticed each held a name. A silver coin with Bogurt’s name swayed in the wind, alongside the others thought to be missing or dead. The solemn druid stood for a moment, closed his eyes, and grasped the knots in the bark, and imagined home for the first time in years. It was a brisk day in northwestern Ulnost. The druidic city was quieter than usual, with most taking care to wear coats to combat the northern winds. The courtyard near the Sanctum of Dreams grew especially cold, if only for a moment. A great willow oak stood tall, hundreds of years old. As a magical cold surged in the courtyard, Vesser the Greater and several members of the Councils ran outside the Sanctum, ready to weather whatever could be happening. The great willow cracked open, and an otherworldly cold burst forth. Vesser the Lesser stepped through, and the chill subsided. An aghast crowd formed, and for many moments Vesser and his father just looked at each other, tears welling in their eyes. What could they say? For the young druid, he had not been home in over a decade. He feels guilt, happiness, and worry all at the same time. Choking up, he uttered “How could I not have written you more?” Vesser, a man who has just saved the world, realized how much he just wanted to go home. His father’s proud stature shattered, embracing his son for what felt like a lifetime. “Thank the heavens you’re alright. I thought- it’s been weeks.” They both stood. “Father.” The word was rusty on Vesser’s tongue. “I am home, truly. There is so much we have to discuss.” Vesser the Greater smiled proudly. “Come, my son. Let us go inside. Tell me everything.” And so the story of Vesser the Lesser was told, in earnest, for the first time. From strange voices in Barracksmouth and new companions to his very own death at the hands of Rathwress, the boy spared no detail. “My boy. You have endured far more than any man should have to. I am so sorry I was not there.” Vesser looked up to his father. “You aren’t angry? I destroyed the Dreamstride. I ruined our source of magic for revenge.” “My son, have I ever told you how your mother truly died?” Vesser’s mother passed away before he was old enough to remember her. His father had told him about how she was loving, beautiful, and most of all wise beyond her years. He was told she had died of illness, taken by a plague carried by a foul shipment of supplies. As his father spoke, the young druid’s gaze grew more serious, then confused, and then defeated. His mother was a commander of a sect of Ulnosti rangers tasked with patrolling the borders of Eastwythe. After the region fell to the fey, she was often away from home, keeping the borders safe. Her vessel disappeared while sailing too far north on the eastern shores of Eastwythe. “Why wouldn’t you tell me this?” he asked. “You know why.” For a moment, Vesser was upset. However, in an event that can only stem from the boy’s newfound wisdom, he understood. “So this is why you’ve kept the Drowned Road open.” Vesser the Greater looked upon his son with a desperate gaze. “I could never bring myself to close what could be her only way home. And in my selfishness, the Prince of Jet gave us a year to wait for our destruction. I do not blame you for breaking our connection to the Dreamstride, Vesser. But as of now, we are defenseless. You deserve all the rest in the world, my boy; however it would seem I can once again do nothing but ask for your help. You saw through the Amber Lord’s manipulation. You pioneered a magic that can free us from the Ela. It would seem, son, that you are Vesser the Lesser no more. People are going to confuse us, aren’t they, Vesser the Greater?” “I know exactly where to start, father. I will bring everyone. Lesser and Greater councils alike. On the morning sunrise, make sure to bring your coats. You all have a mountain to meet.” His father smiled from ear to ear. “Very well, Grandmaster.”
Donnegal had been hard at work. What used to be a hovel meant to shield him from the Ela was now a homely abode, lit with the glimmering opal he had been collecting. It was recently that he, under the guidance of Vesser, began to reach an awakening not unlike his teacher months prior. He meditated, listening to the whispers in the snow and the low rumble of the mountain he now called his home. It was what he would later call the first mornings of his life he truly felt at peace. He could not help but remember the trials he endured to attain the land’s respect; it must have been days he spent climbing to the peak of Tempest’s Reach. The roaring, thunderous voice of the Elder guarding its apex still rang in his head. The old staffmaker’s trance was interrupted by a familiar rumbling in the back of his mind. “Donnegal, old friend. Are the preparations complete?” He chuckled, still in awe of the language he now used to speak with the young druid. “Ah, Vesser! I was wondering when you’d contact me. Yes, we have plenty of Opals.” Donnegal then looked towards a bedframe holding a small gnome. “And our mutual friend is ecstatic to help.” Vesser’s voice rang once again. “Wonderful. Let Tiddlemar know you two will have plenty of visitors soon.” At this, magic in the air surged forth; the loud, primordial rumble gave way to a grand portal opening through a large spruce tree nearby. Donnegal beheld the largest congregation of druids since the Fall of Eastwythe, and he was about to help free each and every one of them from a legacy of manipulation by the feywild. He couldn’t help but smile. Upon their greeting, Vesser began to speak. He spoke of change, peace and action. It was as if Donnegal was looking at someone fundamentally different from the boy he helped up the mountain months ago. The old man’s face grew darker as Vesser then spoke of what he would make into an official trial. “I ask that all of you, Lesser and Greater alike, forget this divided nature of our councils. This mountain, whom Donnegal has named Tempest’s Reach, is home to a being closer to the earth itself than anything I’ve ever beheld. The Elder guards the peak of this mountain, and you, like Donnegal and I, must convince it to allow you entry.” At this, Vesser and Donnegal undid the sleeves of their coats, revealing the Opalite tattoos Tiddlemar had inscribed. “This is the first step. I will be with you every step of the way.” At this, the gnome happily greeted Vesser and his father, then took his tools and got to work.
The newly appointed Grandmaster of the Councils held a smile. The first days on Tempest’s Reach were an uneasy few; most of these men and women had never been this far north. As time passed, however, a peaceful warmth settled over the druids. The group of sixty now all shared the same stone markings on their arms, including the eccentric gnome Tiddlemar. Vesser’s father tapped his shoulder. “It seems change comes in many forms, Vesser. How did a gnomish fellow come to join us?” Before the boy could speak, Tiddlemar heartily spoke up. “Well, one of us needs to teach the young ones how to draw these markings. Such a marking takes an artisan’s touch. And, well… You’ve inspired me, boy. I will happily follow your vision. You truly have something here.” The fateful day came. What was once a nervous congregation of druids far from home was now a sight to behold. The men and women of Briar Glen climbed thousands of steps to the apex of Tempest’s Reach. Vesser’s father beheld a magical sight, as not a word was spoken for the entire journey. Was it nerves? What were our people thinking about? Is that boy Dartian doing alright? He was always the more gaunt of his brothers. Just as the former Grandmaster began to worry, the whirling tempest gave way to the clearest, most incredible sky he had ever seen. Not a cloud in the heavens was to block this spectacle. Stars dotted the black canvas above the Councils. Small meteorites burned up on Heimaalin’s atmosphere, illuminating the tundra for moments. The moon sat low in the sky, waiting for the page in history about to be written. A deep, rumbling form broke the silence. Vesser stood ready, almost eager to weather the ancient elemental as he once did. But the Elder, terrifying in its power and wisdom, approached gently, as if the group was in the eye of a hurricane. The skies stayed clear. What Vesser and Donnegal remembered as a violent, whirling being of magic was… smiling? And in the minds of each and every member of the newfound Circle of the Voice rang a single, primordial thought. “Finally.”
Briar Glen was quiet for months. The weather turned for the better, fresh crops began to flourish, and the city rested, awaiting the deluge of merchant caravans that the fine spring often beings. However, the druids were nowhere to be found. The runic gateway to the Drowned Road sat unprotected, as it had been since the loss of the Dreamstride. Vesser’s return was triumphant. He and the Circle of the Voice he led now stood at the facade of the Sanctum of Dreams. Gazing upon their formal home, the druids had reached a consensus. The Archives were saved; only a fool would discard centuries of history. After the matter resolved, Vesser stood in front of his students, uttering a simple phrase. “Let us rebuild.” At this, the Grandmaster’s magic surged; he struck his fist deep into the stone, shattering the Sanctum’s ornate walls and supports in one fell swoop as the Amber Lord had brutally done decades prior. The druids would then look to the people of Briar Glen, hiring artisans and contractors to assist in the construction of what would become the Temple of Stone. It was not long after that the livelihood of the druids was close to what it used to be; the Temple was a place of study, meditation, and healing. Many members of the Circle of the Voice, likely advised by Vesser, took a more active role in the community, seeking out the impoverished or ill to improve life in Briar Glen. Aspiring members surged, and many members took on apprentices. By the end of the month, sixty druids had become two hundred. Days passed, ambitions grew, and news from Leighton was weighing on Vesser’s mind. He left his home, and took a brisk walk to enjoy the morning. In the Temple of Stone sat an enormous, masterfully cut Prase Opal. Vesser’s father was meditating. The boy spoke, breaking the silence. “I know you’ve always hated interruptions, but surely you know why I visit.” Opening his eyes, the sagely druid sighed. “We cannot fight a war for him.” “As my father and most trusted advisor, surely you understand what’s at stake. We are a growing and influential group. You even took a position as an advisor to Lord Anseil. He listens to you. We need to help Leighton.” “What would you have me do, my son? Convince Lord Anseil to declare war on Lagona? It would be a full-scale war. All of Ulnost would be caught up in this. I know you want to help your friend, but politically, our hands are tied. What would it look like if the most concentrated magical prowess in Ulnost independently joined forces with House Allister?” The gaze Vesser’s father held was respectful, but serious. He was talking to his son, not his Grandmaster. Vesser understood that. “You know I can’t sit by and do nothing. I have an idea.” His father sat back in his seat. “What? Grandmaster, please don’t do anything stupid. You are more powerful than you assume. You’ll actually start a war.” “I know. Trust me.” A monarch butterfly, the Grandmaster’s familiar, fluttered in the wind, passing by a messenger hawk destined for Leighton. Vesser’s plan was in motion.
“Dartian. You and your brothers have trained well. I trust you received the assignment I sent you?” Dartian was born into a comfortable family in Briar Glen. His father was elven; similar to his three brothers, he shared elven traits. It was difficult for his family, being cut off from the Dreamstride where his ancestors drew strength. Despite this, his lineage was strong-willed; his family was one of the few able to resist the depravity borne of Eastwythe’s fall. He and his siblings joined the Lesser Council after the Amber Lord was banished and druidic magic was thought to be no more. They had been inspired by Vesser the Greater’s leadership through those hard times, and knew their calling was to help in any way they could. Months of studying gave way to the return of the Grandmaster’s son, a member of the emergent Argent Company. Vesser’s son was a druid, and should have had nothing with which to draw the strength needed to command such powerful magic. The advent of the new Grandmaster brought hope into the four brothers. How could they not follow him? They were not proud of their fey ancestry; it led to thousands of lost lives, and the ruin of his parents’ reputation. A new form of druidic magic? Primordial? The brothers had to learn more. Their Grandmaster had taken them to Tempest’s Reach. The mountain was perilous, and in the beginning the cold felt as biting as a dagger. He could not help but be skeptical of the strange, fluorescent stones Vesser handed them. “It’s a lovely stone, Master. You would like us to… listen to it?” He looked at Donnegal, curious as to why such an old staffmaker had spent so much time here. Weeks later, the brothers understood. The earth was not unlike the Oaks they read about; the origin of their own druidic language bore the same inspiration and thought, albeit easier to understand, as the mountain they studied. The whispers and hums meant something, as if they had been waiting to be heard for millenia. The Grandmaster was incredible. Caught daydreaming, Dartian was a bit embarrassed. “Yes, sir. We are to make for the Autumnvale?” A serious gaze from Vesser commanded their attention. “You will meet Lord Leighton Allister, a man who, aside from being one of my closest friends, is the finest military commander and gentleman I have ever met. You are all incredible men, and I trust you will take care of one another. Help the forces of House Allister as healers. Tend to their wounded. Bless the harvests of their homeland. Take as much pressure off of my old friend as you can. However, politics seem to restrict me more than I wanted. This must be a task carried with discretion. As such, you cannot wear the broach of our Circle.” The brothers felt their heartbeats hasten at the chance to test themselves. “We won’t let you down, Master.” Vesser then smiles, handing them a jar, containing a familiar monarch butterfly. “Take David with you. Leighton will know it’s me. And please… say hello for me.” The brothers left, gathering fine horses at the eastern stable. They rode forth, the first of many missions the druids would perform in service of Vesser’s old friend.
It was a calm morning in Briar Glen, and the Grandmaster strode the halls of the Temple. Vesser faced an elaborate door. It stood behind the main hall, with the crest of the Argent Company burned into the stained oak. For the first time in several months, he stepped into the Dwersik. A familiar space opened itself to him, filled with memories and trinkets gathered from the adventures he shared with his companions. Half-expecting Kastus to be sitting by the fire, Vesser could not help but feel saddened. Breathing in for a moment, he then made for his quarters and set to work. The young druid had achieved substantial magical prowess, and was now once again a pioneer of dangerous, powerful forces. Hidden in a secret compartment was a shard of a mirror. He stuffed it in his bag and returned to the Temple. “Vesser, you must think about this. That thing killed you once. Who’s to say it won’t try again?” The boy placed his hands on the balcony, stretching his back with a slight sigh. “I cannot speak for Rathwress’ intentions, father. However, I made a promise. A promise, I may add, I made after holding quite the conversations with him. I am not entirely sure what this could bring upon the world, but I believe I can call him a friend.” For a while, his father stood silent, admiring the end of the day’s sunrise. “I know I cannot convince you otherwise. You must at least let me come with you.” “This may be the only time I cannot do what you ask. You must understand why I need to do this alone. This is between him and I.” “If I was not your father, I would forbid it, Vesser. But you have proven yourself to be a man far beyond your years, if not mine as well. Very well. I trust you.” Vesser had not visited Sinopa since the siege of Wanamekwa. With a certain conviction written on his face, the druids beheld their Grandmaster as he imagined the ancient Drevinsik temple upon the peaks of the Sinopan highlands. For a moment, it was still; some blinked and missed it. The great willow oak in the square opened brightly, and Vesser stepped through, continents away from home. It was warmer than Vesser expected. The bustle of his home drained into the stark quiet accompanied by the dark stone temple he now beheld once more. Vesser would not dare perform what he planned within its sacred walls, but he wished to be as close to the leyline of magic held here as possible. The druid then leaped, and his boots gave way to talons, assuming the form of a hawk to soar to a nearby mountain. Clad once again in the ornate robes of the Argent Company, Vesser listened for a while. He wrote in his journal. He even took a sip of the famous, strong Sevnoni liquor Kastus taught him to love. The wind carried his thoughts, and it was this wind he now commanded. He closed his eyes, and a single word rumbled in the skies above the western subcontinent. “RATHWRESS.” Vesser laughed, remembering a joke he told his old shipmate Drez over a year ago. He had made camp at the peak of this mountain, waiting for what was almost three days. On the night of the third, the full moon and starry clear sky blanketed the Sinopan mountains with a calming teal starlight. The druid listened, his heartbeat slowing as his mind drew into meditation. This calm display was interrupted by the starlight giving way to shadow and wind. A great blackened form descended upon the apex of Vesser’s mountain, its claws effortlessly burrowing into the permafrost. The ancient dragon’s voice rumbled with a similar terrifying resonance Vesser used to call him. “The boy with the golden hair, alone again in this shattered nation. Why have you called me?” The young druid could not help his smile, once again beholding the beast that slew him. “It is good to see you as well, old friend. Do you not miss our conversations as I do?” “Little druid. I would lie if I said you are not an amusing one.” Rathwress’s golden eyes narrowed, and his aged form grew smaller as he exhaled. “But that is not why you called out to me.” A moment or two passed, and a singular cloud blocked the calming starlight as Vesser beheld the dragon’s form. Rathwress had looked better; with the source of his immortality gone, the ancient dragon was very much so. A gentle rasp could be noticed from his breathing. Without his help, it was likely Vesser would not see Rathwress again. “I want to fulfill my promise.” The druid produced the shard of Grandmama’s phylactery he kept safe for this moment. “Meditate with me. I have something to show you.” “Hmm. Honor walks with you, little one.” After some consideration, the dragon curled into a dark crescent, almost as if to sleep for the night. His head bowed towards Vesser, resting his nose inches away from his old friend. The campfire was stoked, and the calm druid tossed the mirror’s shard into the blaze, whispering a Druidic prayer. “Listen. Hear the fire burn away this memory of yours.” May we only hope the earth gives back what you have stolen. Time.” Rathwress had never experienced something like this. Had this been any other human, he would have laughed, crushing their weak form like an ant. Recent months, however, granted the dragon fatigue. He was tired, and this was a feeling he had not known in his long existence. Perhaps he truly was to die. Hope was not what drove Rathwress to meet with Vesser, but a feeling that felt rusty in his age. Trust. He then felt a thought whisper in his mind, feeling as surprising and familiar as one looking into a mirror for the first time. He remembered placing his essence in that witch’s phylactery, and just as quickly the memory burned away, replaced by the crackling of a campfire and the glimmering beauty of starlight. His regrets took shape, only to be purified by the fire this young human cultivated. This boy was beyond anything he had seen in a human before. Vesser entered a deep trance, and beheld the very voice of the mountain he sat on. “He deserves redemption,” he said. “Slow his time as you did for me.” Weeks passed, and the mountain answered with a presence he didn’t know to be possible. “AND SO HE SHALL LISTEN AS WE DO. IT IS DECREED.” The two awoke. Vesser felt weaker and more spent than he ever had. The green aura once hanging high in the heavens now wrapped around the ancient dragon’s form, and moments later it vanished. Old wounds and scars closed on Rathwress’ body. Holes in his wings sealed shut. Broken teeth and claws were restored anew. The dragon felt more alive than he had in millennia. He could still sense his old age, but now his death felt much, much further. “Perhaps it is now that I can speak to you in earnest. You truly are remarkable, old friend. Be well, Vesser Highmore. You have an ally in me for as long as you live, and beyond.” The dragon took off, breathing in the atmosphere as if for the first time. Vesser smiled, ate a meal, and took a well-deserved rest. He should return home tomorrow. FIN
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