At the last light of the sixth day after the death of the orc chief, Frellon made his bed under an old and withered tree. He arranged his gear around himself and rested his eyes. His sword was drawn and lay on his chest as he drifted off to sleep.
In his dream he stood surrounded by enemies, but no matter how many times his blade struck them down, they got back up, gaping wounds and all, to resume their assault. He fought and fought, but they closed in again and again. Master swordsman though he was, eventually he tired, and one of the things managed to bite his hand. Golden Flames bubbled up out of his wound, and the thing hissed in recoil.
In his fury at being injured, he struck with his bare fist, his own blood splattered over the zombie, to his surprise his blood was eating through their flesh like acid. No, that wasn’t right, the Golden Flames were burning through its flesh.
The dream ended in a flash of bright light and an inferno of all-consuming Golden Fire.
When Frellon awoke the next morning, he was shocked to discover a scar on his hand where there had been none the night before. It was in the shape of a bite mark. Disturbed by this, he nonetheless packed up his gear and continued south.
He was making good progress; the miles flew by each day under the unrelenting march of a god. Even so, He had taken a similar trip once before and it had taken much time as well. The disk was truly massive. Still, this time he doubted a living ship would come and whisk him away to his destination…
Part way through the day, an idea came to Frellon. Inspired by his nights dreaming, he drew his sword. He knew from long, long experience that the sword housed the memories of those who had once wielded it. He had relived those memories, finding much wisdom and knowledge. Now he sought to use them for something else.
He placed his hand upon the blade and drew out the memories of an orc warrior who was as honorable as he was skilled, they took form as a swirling blue mist in his left hand. Then Frellon called upon his spark, and immolated the memories in divine energies of life. The mist seemed to ignite into golden flames, and took a roughly humanoid form.
Frellon repeated this process as he traveled that day. A few dozen spirits trailed after him. Eventually he stopped and turned to face them. They were faceless, featureless, transparent. They were still little more than mist, yet they were glowing with a soundless golden fire that cast long shadows in the growing twilight.
At length, one of them addressed him.
“Lord?”
Frellon looked at the one who was formed from the memories of a wise orc chieftain by the name of Mertaag. He needed to know…
“Who are you?”
“I… I do not know. Do you need something from us, Lord?”
Frellon was almost disappointed. It was better that they did not inherit the memories they were birthed from, but he would have liked to converse with an old friend if they had.
“Yes. Do you know who I am?”
“You are my lord. What else is there to know?”
“My name is Frellon. I am the god of Honor, the Lord of Arms. You are spirits I have created to be my messengers. You are incarnations of Honor itself. You may call yourselves Orunta, after an Honorable people I once knew. Now, I have a task for some of you.”
“The Orunta will do as you ask, Lord”
“Good. You three will travel south, to a city by the name of Markien. If you can find it, come and report to me as to whether or not it still stands strong and as to whether my brother, the god Carolinus, resides there still.”
“Yes my Lord.”
Without wasting a heartbeat, the three spirits darted off south, vanishing into the side of a hill, flying straight as an arrow.
“You others will store yourselves in this sword until I need you.”
As Frellon thought, the Sword of Heroes easily accepted the memories back into itself. But the memories were more alive, and he could summon the Orunta directly from his sword as he needed them. It would be useful to have messengers that did not need sleep, or food, or survival skills. He had been cut off from his siblings for far too long.
He made his camp for the night, right at that spot. For it was dark.
I wonder if I will have strange dreams again… perhaps the next one will tell me where the Titans are hiding…
Spoiler
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1 Minor Act: Create some lesser servants: The Orunta are spirits of pure Honor, given form by the residual memories of honorable orc warriors from the Sword of Heroes. They are limitedly intelligent, certainly no brighter than Frellon is, and have great difficulty interacting directly with the physical world, though they can.
Correct me if i'm wrong:
3 Major Acts, 3 minor Acts, 3 Ceremonies Remaining
Re: Heroes of the Fall
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