Chapter 91: 91
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"Ah yes, the eternal flame, the giver of life, the keeper of immortality," Fangorn muses to himself from across the room, a faint smile playing on his lips as he reclines casually back against his chair, as though some long forgotten memory had just arisen in the blackened depths of his mind.
"It has been called worse," I say honestly, "The bringer of destruction among all things," I add, leaning myself back against my own chair and crossing my legs at the ankles as I tilt my head in silent questioning, urging him to continue. Fangorn straightens himself up, moving his candle again to one side- seemingly out of a peculiar wariness as though he is keen to keep my face in the light, my silhouette casting thick black shadows scattering across the walls, illuminating the pale pictured portraits dangling in golden frames on either side of the wall.
Some of them I recognise: a familiar dark skinned lady whose face is dotted with the marks of a guardian, a younger looking boy with messy black hair looking not particularly pleased at being painted, his lips moved to capture that characteristic look of nonchalance, yet simultaneously exuding a dazzling flair that only he seems to be able to conjure. I suppose Soren was always one for charm, even in his younger years. The rest of the paintings I do not recognise at all- a pale sickly looking lady with black hair and wide white eyes, and a large, green skinned giant with a little winged figure standing on his shoulder, too small to make out through the dimness of the light and the yellowing of the canvass. I sigh a little.
It is a small room, cosy, almost, but I imagine after many hours of toiling away in here, writing out reams of paper whilst attempting not to spill ink all over the desk, it must get incredibly cramped. I don't think I could stand to live in such a place.
"I admire your approach to my kind," Fangorn murmurs his approval, low voice rumbling back and forth between the dark grey walls, echoing his endorsement from one side to the next. I shift in my seat nervously. In the palace at least, a vampire's compliment is never given so easily (or at least not without ulterior motive), so the act in itself seems almost entirely unnatural- enough so that a small squirming feeling arises in my gut, wriggling like a worm infested corpse. And then I remind myself, scolding inwardly, that this is a vampire whose motives are unlikely to be malicious, that with all his time in the end in accompaniment with his fondness for Lilyana, I would be hard pressed to find a reason for his compliment to be anything other than that: a compliment. So I settle down.
"You are much kinder that many I know- many who would not give my people a second chance, preferring to keep the label of coldblooded monsters for as long as it suits them. I know your circumstances have perhaps pushed your state of mind, but I am thankful all the same," he says, splaying out his hand and bowing his head in a low, respectful manner. I dip my head politely back.
"The pleasure is all mine. Thank you for agreeing to help me. I think without your guidance, I may just be lost." I admit, rubbing the back of my neck. Carefully, I withdraw Soren's diary from the bag at my hip, placing it on the table with a heavy thud, allowing for some time for Fangorn to draw in the information I have thrust upon him. Fangorn's eyebrows raise.
"I can't imagine My Lord will be too happy when he finds this missing," he muses quitely, his fingers skim lightly over the gold lettering, shaking a little, lingering at the edges of the book, as if desiring to flick through the pages, yet simultaneously afraid of the consequences of doing so. Of course, he may have been cast out years ago and flung into the depths of the end with little more than a second thought, but the lingering respect he still carries for Soren holds an undeniable truth, and so with guilty hands, he removes his fingers away from the diary. A general's respect is never one to waver.
"Well, I don't plan on telling him, I just need to return it and he will be none the wiser. According to this, you were Soren's general for years. In fact, you must have known him very well before…" I cut myself off, deliberating over the words, my mouth suddenly going sour. "Before things went south. Surely you must know what is guarding the flame? What can be done to avoid such problems?" I beg, leaning forward on my chair to press my hands together in silent plea. Fangorn studies me for a second, then glances down to the book, then back at me, an unspoken pattern forming between each change in focus. His lip twitches. The candle flickers.
"I know of such powers guarding the flame. I was there not long after they were created," he says, flexing his calloused fingers against the desk, rapping his knuckles on the ebony wood. My mouth falls open slightly. Despite obviously noticing my somewhat startled expression, Fangorn continues on anyway, letting me soak in the information at a pace that best suits him- a rather vampire thing to do, in retrospect.
"Indeed, I even helped shape some of the later defences of the maze- my historical background of war and strategy made me an excellent candidate. You see," he says, bringing up a quill from an inkpot on the far end of the desk and sweeping aside some spare papers to make room for a clean sheet of parchment, pondering thoughtfully for a minute before he places the ink laden quill onto the white expanse. A small scratching sound echoes around the room as he begins drawing.
"Soren, and his late father before him before he was killed by the angels, took great measures to ensure the flame would never see the light of day, let alone come into the hands of the angels they so desperately loathed. They hid it, right in the beating heart of the castle, under hundreds of layers of stone and icy brick, buried so deep that even an angel with the keenest senses and a lifeline to that very flame would never be able to sense its location. The idea was to only ever let them feel the thrum of its power inside their veins, calling out to the angels who longed to return what was once theirs only to be trapped by the very hands they sought to avoid- I think they liked the idea, it was like a game to them. A taunt."
"The beating heart of the castle?" I query slowly, bring myself forward an inch to peer at the illustration Fangorn is carving into the paper, slender fingers meticulously working away with the quill, the fine ink blotting patches of the paper that he had failed to cover. Fangorn does not look up from his work, instead continuing to persist onwards with whatever he is sketching, remaining stubbornly silent and elusive, letting me figure out what it means by myself. I refrain from the temptation to roll my eyes.
Instead I sigh languorously, leaning back again, resting my hands behind my head as I try not to retort any witty remarks that will lose me the already vague (but valuable) help I am getting. Fangorn finishes his sketch, bringing himself upright to survey it, before sweeping his hand over the page to draw my attention back to the work he has created.
"At the heart of the palace, deep underground there is-"
Suddenly Fangorn's voice goes dull around me, muffled as though taking on the distinct characteristic of speaking somewhere deep underwater, my senses blocking out all sound, all vision, replaced with a singular image of an underground corridor that manifests itself into my mind, spanning off in multiple directions, and a door at the end of a dampened hallway, blanketed in darkness and the screams of the dying, rising up into the air like smoke on the pale breath of a wintry morning. So many screams.
"A maze," I say, cutting him off without thinking, my focus returning back to the room. Fangorn freezes for a moment, eyeing over the slight tremble that runs through my form, but nods stiffly as I run my hand over the lines of the maze he has drawn, a circular structure with a small dot in the middle- a dot I can only assume is the flame.
"Yes... A maze," he affirms, a tone of caution lacing the edges of his gravely voice, although I am not entirely sure when it got there. After looking over the drawing a while longer, my eyes glaze with the near sheer impossibility of the task before me, and I bring my hand up to thumb over my pendant, soothing my worries with a few anxious strokes.
A flicker of white hair flashes between my waking vision, then an instant later, it is gone. My movements slow to a stop.
Fangorn raps his finger on the paper, drawing a large oval round the whole thing as he brings me back to attention, suddenly keen to not lose me to whatever visions I might be experiencing.
"The maze is miles long and networks out under the whole city of Sezeria. It is split into three tiers, each one designed to be more deadly than the last, if you don't know what you are doing." He pauses for a second to indicate the first circle he has drawn.
"The first layer was the king's creation. To a vampire, it may be considered the easiest one, but to you, a mortal with a single life to spare, it will not be easy at all. The hallways of the maze are littered with halfling vampires, the product of a foolish creation many years ago. They are rabid, wild, and completely starved for centuries- some of them still roam these forests, in fact. If they catch a single scent of your blood, of the freshness in your beating heart, they will tear you apart. They are wild creatures, not like the ones of Sezeria," he warns, and I gulp loudly, my throat working in an effort to stay calm.
A maze of three tiers, murderous halfling vampires, an a weird hallucinatory vision, what more could I possibly want?
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"Ah yes, the eternal flame, the giver of life, the keeper of immortality," Fangorn muses to himself from across the room, a faint smile playing on his lips as he reclines casually back against his chair, as though some long forgotten memory had just arisen in the blackened depths of his mind.
"It has been called worse," I say honestly, "The bringer of destruction among all things," I add, leaning myself back against my own chair and crossing my legs at the ankles as I tilt my head in silent questioning, urging him to continue. Fangorn straightens himself up, moving his candle again to one side- seemingly out of a peculiar wariness as though he is keen to keep my face in the light, my silhouette casting thick black shadows scattering across the walls, illuminating the pale pictured portraits dangling in golden frames on either side of the wall.
Some of them I recognise: a familiar dark skinned lady whose face is dotted with the marks of a guardian, a younger looking boy with messy black hair looking not particularly pleased at being painted, his lips moved to capture that characteristic look of nonchalance, yet simultaneously exuding a dazzling flair that only he seems to be able to conjure. I suppose Soren was always one for charm, even in his younger years. The rest of the paintings I do not recognise at all- a pale sickly looking lady with black hair and wide white eyes, and a large, green skinned giant with a little winged figure standing on his shoulder, too small to make out through the dimness of the light and the yellowing of the canvass. I sigh a little.
It is a small room, cosy, almost, but I imagine after many hours of toiling away in here, writing out reams of paper whilst attempting not to spill ink all over the desk, it must get incredibly cramped. I don't think I could stand to live in such a place.
"I admire your approach to my kind," Fangorn murmurs his approval, low voice rumbling back and forth between the dark grey walls, echoing his endorsement from one side to the next. I shift in my seat nervously. In the palace at least, a vampire's compliment is never given so easily (or at least not without ulterior motive), so the act in itself seems almost entirely unnatural- enough so that a small squirming feeling arises in my gut, wriggling like a worm infested corpse. And then I remind myself, scolding inwardly, that this is a vampire whose motives are unlikely to be malicious, that with all his time in the end in accompaniment with his fondness for Lilyana, I would be hard pressed to find a reason for his compliment to be anything other than that: a compliment. So I settle down.
"You are much kinder that many I know- many who would not give my people a second chance, preferring to keep the label of coldblooded monsters for as long as it suits them. I know your circumstances have perhaps pushed your state of mind, but I am thankful all the same," he says, splaying out his hand and bowing his head in a low, respectful manner. I dip my head politely back.
"The pleasure is all mine. Thank you for agreeing to help me. I think without your guidance, I may just be lost." I admit, rubbing the back of my neck. Carefully, I withdraw Soren's diary from the bag at my hip, placing it on the table with a heavy thud, allowing for some time for Fangorn to draw in the information I have thrust upon him. Fangorn's eyebrows raise.
"I can't imagine My Lord will be too happy when he finds this missing," he muses quitely, his fingers skim lightly over the gold lettering, shaking a little, lingering at the edges of the book, as if desiring to flick through the pages, yet simultaneously afraid of the consequences of doing so. Of course, he may have been cast out years ago and flung into the depths of the end with little more than a second thought, but the lingering respect he still carries for Soren holds an undeniable truth, and so with guilty hands, he removes his fingers away from the diary. A general's respect is never one to waver.
"Well, I don't plan on telling him, I just need to return it and he will be none the wiser. According to this, you were Soren's general for years. In fact, you must have known him very well before…" I cut myself off, deliberating over the words, my mouth suddenly going sour. "Before things went south. Surely you must know what is guarding the flame? What can be done to avoid such problems?" I beg, leaning forward on my chair to press my hands together in silent plea. Fangorn studies me for a second, then glances down to the book, then back at me, an unspoken pattern forming between each change in focus. His lip twitches. The candle flickers.
"I know of such powers guarding the flame. I was there not long after they were created," he says, flexing his calloused fingers against the desk, rapping his knuckles on the ebony wood. My mouth falls open slightly. Despite obviously noticing my somewhat startled expression, Fangorn continues on anyway, letting me soak in the information at a pace that best suits him- a rather vampire thing to do, in retrospect.
"Indeed, I even helped shape some of the later defences of the maze- my historical background of war and strategy made me an excellent candidate. You see," he says, bringing up a quill from an inkpot on the far end of the desk and sweeping aside some spare papers to make room for a clean sheet of parchment, pondering thoughtfully for a minute before he places the ink laden quill onto the white expanse. A small scratching sound echoes around the room as he begins drawing.
"Soren, and his late father before him before he was killed by the angels, took great measures to ensure the flame would never see the light of day, let alone come into the hands of the angels they so desperately loathed. They hid it, right in the beating heart of the castle, under hundreds of layers of stone and icy brick, buried so deep that even an angel with the keenest senses and a lifeline to that very flame would never be able to sense its location. The idea was to only ever let them feel the thrum of its power inside their veins, calling out to the angels who longed to return what was once theirs only to be trapped by the very hands they sought to avoid- I think they liked the idea, it was like a game to them. A taunt."
"The beating heart of the castle?" I query slowly, bring myself forward an inch to peer at the illustration Fangorn is carving into the paper, slender fingers meticulously working away with the quill, the fine ink blotting patches of the paper that he had failed to cover. Fangorn does not look up from his work, instead continuing to persist onwards with whatever he is sketching, remaining stubbornly silent and elusive, letting me figure out what it means by myself. I refrain from the temptation to roll my eyes.
Instead I sigh languorously, leaning back again, resting my hands behind my head as I try not to retort any witty remarks that will lose me the already vague (but valuable) help I am getting. Fangorn finishes his sketch, bringing himself upright to survey it, before sweeping his hand over the page to draw my attention back to the work he has created.
"At the heart of the palace, deep underground there is-"
Suddenly Fangorn's voice goes dull around me, muffled as though taking on the distinct characteristic of speaking somewhere deep underwater, my senses blocking out all sound, all vision, replaced with a singular image of an underground corridor that manifests itself into my mind, spanning off in multiple directions, and a door at the end of a dampened hallway, blanketed in darkness and the screams of the dying, rising up into the air like smoke on the pale breath of a wintry morning. So many screams.
"A maze," I say, cutting him off without thinking, my focus returning back to the room. Fangorn freezes for a moment, eyeing over the slight tremble that runs through my form, but nods stiffly as I run my hand over the lines of the maze he has drawn, a circular structure with a small dot in the middle- a dot I can only assume is the flame.
"Yes... A maze," he affirms, a tone of caution lacing the edges of his gravely voice, although I am not entirely sure when it got there. After looking over the drawing a while longer, my eyes glaze with the near sheer impossibility of the task before me, and I bring my hand up to thumb over my pendant, soothing my worries with a few anxious strokes.
A flicker of white hair flashes between my waking vision, then an instant later, it is gone. My movements slow to a stop.
Fangorn raps his finger on the paper, drawing a large oval round the whole thing as he brings me back to attention, suddenly keen to not lose me to whatever visions I might be experiencing.
"The maze is miles long and networks out under the whole city of Sezeria. It is split into three tiers, each one designed to be more deadly than the last, if you don't know what you are doing." He pauses for a second to indicate the first circle he has drawn.
"The first layer was the king's creation. To a vampire, it may be considered the easiest one, but to you, a mortal with a single life to spare, it will not be easy at all. The hallways of the maze are littered with halfling vampires, the product of a foolish creation many years ago. They are rabid, wild, and completely starved for centuries- some of them still roam these forests, in fact. If they catch a single scent of your blood, of the freshness in your beating heart, they will tear you apart. They are wild creatures, not like the ones of Sezeria," he warns, and I gulp loudly, my throat working in an effort to stay calm.
A maze of three tiers, murderous halfling vampires, an a weird hallucinatory vision, what more could I possibly want?
"Ah yes, the eternal flame, the giver of life, the keeper of immortality," Fangorn muses to himself from across the room, a faint smile playing on his lips as he reclines casually back against his chair, as though some long forgotten memory had just arisen in the blackened depths of his mind."It has been called worse," I say honestly, "The bringer of destruction among all things," I add, leaning myself back against my own chair and crossing my legs at the ankles as I tilt my head in silent questioning, urging him to continue. Fangorn straightens himself up, moving his candle again to one side- seemingly out of a peculiar wariness as though he is keen to keep my face in the light, my silhouette casting thick black shadows scattering across the walls, illuminating the pale pictured portraits dangling in golden frames on either side of the wall. Some of them I recognise: a familiar dark skinned lady whose face is dotted with the marks of a guardian, a younger looking boy with messy black hair looking not particularly pleased at being painted, his lips moved to capture that characteristic look of nonchalance, yet simultaneously exuding a dazzling flair that only he seems to be able to conjure. I suppose Soren was always one for charm, even in his younger years. The rest of the paintings I do not recognise at all- a pale sickly looking lady with black hair and wide white eyes, and a large, green skinned giant with a little winged figure standing on his shoulder, too small to make out through the dimness of the light and the yellowing of the canvass. I sigh a little.It is a small room, cosy, almost, but I imagine after many hours of toiling away in here, writing out reams of paper whilst attempting not to spill ink all over the desk, it must get incredibly cramped. I don't think I could stand to live in such a place."I admire your approach to my kind," Fangorn murmurs his approval, low voice rumbling back and forth between the dark grey walls, echoing his endorsement from one side to the next. I shift in my seat nervously. In the palace at least, a vampire's compliment is never given so easily or at least not without ulterior motive, so the act in itself seems almost entirely unnatural- enough so that a small squirming feeling arises in my gut, wriggling like a worm infested corpse. And then I remind myself, scolding inwardly, that this is a vampire whose motives are unlikely to be malicious, that with all his time in the end in accompaniment with his fondness for Lilyana, I would be hard pressed to find a reason for his compliment to be anything other than that: a compliment. So I settle down. "You are much kinder that many I know- many who would not give my people a second chance, preferring to keep the label of coldblooded monsters for as long as it suits them. I know your circumstances have perhaps pushed your state of mind, but I am thankful all the same," he says, splaying out his hand and bowing his head in a low, respectful manner. I dip my head politely back."The pleasure is all mine. Thank you for agreeing to help me. I think without your guidance, I may just be lost." I admit, rubbing the back of my neck. Carefully, I withdraw Soren's diary from the bag at my hip, placing it on the table with a heavy thud, allowing for some time for Fangorn to draw in the information I have thrust upon him. Fangorn's eyebrows raise."I can't imagine My Lord will be too happy when he finds this missing," he muses quitely, his fingers skim lightly over the gold lettering, shaking a little, lingering at the edges of the book, as if desiring to flick through the pages, yet simultaneously afraid of the consequences of doing so. Of course, he may have been cast out years ago and flung into the depths of the end with little more than a second thought, but the lingering respect he still carries for Soren holds an undeniable truth, and so with guilty hands, he removes his fingers away from the diary. A general's respect is never one to waver."Well, I don't plan on telling him, I just need to return it and he will be none the wiser. According to this, you were Soren's general for years. In fact, you must have known him very well before" I cut myself off, deliberating over the words, my mouth suddenly going sour. "Before things went south. Surely you must know what is guarding the flame? What can be done to avoid such problems?" I beg, leaning forward on my chair to press my hands together in silent plea. Fangorn studies me for a second, then glances down to the book, then back at me, an unspoken pattern forming between each change in focus. His lip twitches. The candle flickers."I know of such powers guarding the flame. I was there not long after they were created," he says, flexing his calloused fingers against the desk, rapping his knuckles on the ebony wood. My mouth falls open slightly. Despite obviously noticing my somewhat startled expression, Fangorn continues on anyway, letting me soak in the information at a pace that best suits him- a rather vampire thing to do, in retrospect."Indeed, I even helped shape some of the later defences of the maze- my historical background of war and strategy made me an excellent candidate. You see," he says, bringing up a quill from an inkpot on the far end of the desk and sweeping aside some spare papers to make room for a clean sheet of parchment, pondering thoughtfully for a minute before he places the ink laden quill onto the white expanse. A small scratching sound echoes around the room as he begins drawing."Soren, and his late father before him before he was killed by the angels, took great measures to ensure the flame would never see the light of day, let alone come into the hands of the angels they so desperately loathed. They hid it, right in the beating heart of the castle, under hundreds of layers of stone and icy brick, buried so deep that even an angel with the keenest senses and a lifeline to that very flame would never be able to sense its location. The idea was to only ever let them feel the thrum of its power inside their veins, calling out to the angels who longed to return what was once theirs only to be trapped by the very hands they sought to avoid- I think they liked the idea, it was like a game to them. A taunt.""The beating heart of the castle?" I query slowly, bring myself forward an inch to peer at the illustration Fangorn is carving into the paper, slender fingers meticulously working away with the quill, the fine ink blotting patches of the paper that he had failed to cover. Fangorn does not look up from his work, instead continuing to persist onwards with whatever he is sketching, remaining stubbornly silent and elusive, letting me figure out what it means by myself. I refrain from the temptation to roll my eyes.Instead I sigh languorously, leaning back again, resting my hands behind my head as I try not to retort any witty remarks that will lose me the already vague but valuable help I am getting. Fangorn finishes his sketch, bringing himself upright to survey it, before sweeping his hand over the page to draw my attention back to the work he has created."At the heart of the palace, deep underground there is-"Suddenly Fangorn's voice goes dull around me, muffled as though taking on the distinct characteristic of speaking somewhere deep underwater, my senses blocking out all sound, all vision, replaced with a singular image of an underground corridor that manifests itself into my mind, spanning off in multiple directions, and a door at the end of a dampened hallway, blanketed in darkness and the screams of the dying, rising up into the air like smoke on the pale breath of a wintry morning. So many screams."A maze," I say, cutting him off without thinking, my focus returning back to the room. Fangorn freezes for a moment, eyeing over the slight tremble that runs through my form, but nods stiffly as I run my hand over the lines of the maze he has drawn, a circular structure with a small dot in the middle- a dot I can only assume is the flame. "Yes... A maze," he affirms, a tone of caution lacing the edges of his gravely voice, although I am not entirely sure when it got there. After looking over the drawing a while longer, my eyes glaze with the near sheer impossibility of the task before me, and I bring my hand up to thumb over my pendant, soothing my worries with a few anxious strokes.A flicker of white hair flashes between my waking vision, then an instant later, it is gone. My movements slow to a stop.Fangorn raps his finger on the paper, drawing a large oval round the whole thing as he brings me back to attention, suddenly keen to not lose me to whatever visions I might be experiencing."The maze is miles long and networks out under the whole city of Sezeria. It is split into three tiers, each one designed to be more deadly than the last, if you don't know what you are doing." He pauses for a second to indicate the first circle he has drawn."The first layer was the king's creation. To a vampire, it may be considered the easiest one, but to you, a mortal with a single life to spare, it will not be easy at all. The hallways of the maze are littered with halfling vampires, the product of a foolish creation many years ago. They are rabid, wild, and completely starved for centuries- some of them still roam these forests, in fact. If they catch a single scent of your blood, of the freshness in your beating heart, they will tear you apart. They are wild creatures, not like the ones of Sezeria," he warns, and I gulp loudly, my throat working in an effort to stay calm. A maze of three tiers, murderous halfling vampires, an a weird hallucinatory vision, what more could I possibly want?
