Era of the Dragoon

Chapter 1: Funeral

Two years after Valen's Fall
One hundred ninety-seventh year after Rise of Man

The woods were quiet and peaceful. Decades of isolation had allowed the trees to grow large, the underbrush thick and lush. The sun broke is dawn gently overhead, trickling down through the forest canopy breaking the fast of the tangling shrubbery blanketing the floor below.

Aside from leaves wobbling lazily in the warm morning breeze, no movement broke the tranquility. This was because nothing lived here. Well, almost nothing.

Rothan moved quietly through the brush, stopping every few paces to observe his surroundings and rest his mangled leg. Having no nation to call home, and wanting to keep close on the fading trail of the wyvern Keldon, he'd taken little time to properly tend his wounds. For the first few months after the Fall, Rothan had oft found himself facing death, either from narrowing avoiding detection of the advancing Draconian forces, lack of sustainable food or drink, or most notably the infection that took deep into his leg. Currently, a thick, ugly scar shattered down his leg within a great impression marking where he'd been forced to cut out the rotting muscle. He'd learned to keep a good landspeed despite his limp and being forced to favor one side. However, the constant, dull throb was a constant reminder that pushed him forward.

Now, however, he was just reminded that he was getting old. And that he needed more food.

Satisfied he was still alone, and his leg had quieted down, Rothan slowly stood and began working deeper into the brush toward his destination. For the past year, Rothan had been forced to call this accursed forest his home.

He'd followed Keldon's trail south from Valen out of the Dragon's Neck, often finding evidence of his passing as the remains of wild animals, wandering livestock, and occasionally the mangled and half eaten bodies of outlying farmers and shepherds. Any hope that any alleiged to Valen remained beside Rothan were quickly stricken after this, after he nearly stumbled into a large Draconian force camped at the southern edge of the Valen border. With the roaming patrols streaming in and out of this force, and a personal encounter with a runner as he was preparing to make a dark camp for the night, it was clear that they were under orders to keep any of the nations remnants within the borders lest they warn the other Free Nations of Man against them.

After gaining a lead on the army, the only reason he could presume being their ensuring of complete eradication of potential alarmers, he caught his quarries trail after being ambushed by an Eylver Rangewarden squad. He spent two nights with them, getting what little treatment they could provide for his nearly healed wounds and informing them of the events at Valen. He was reciprocated with information of an unusual encounter with a violet eyed traveler claiming he was an ambassador from Valen heading for Paran. The man had become anxious during inquiry on how he expected to gain entrance to the sealed nation, and suddenly attacked the squad, killing one and wounding another, finally returning to true form and turning east during his escape, through Netana Forest, where Rothan was now trapped.

Initially the home of the Draconian Eylving camps, Netana Forest primarily encompasses the northern half of the Erana Wood, which supplied lumber and edible vegetation to the Draconian fiefdoms for architecture and slave rations. It was not uncommon for the vegetation to be half rotten by the time it arrived to the slaves, the majority of the properly ripe foodstuffs going to the Dragons, Wyverns, and Wyrms who controlled their respective regions, counties, and cities. After the Randell uprising in Paran, the Elyv workers began their own revolution, using axes, scythes, and rough-made bows against the steel, claw and magic of their oppressors. Quickly finding themselves overwhelmed by pure numbers, the Dragon oppressors became rash in their haste to quell the revolt and unleashed imperfect and barely tested magics, developed during their experimentations on humans in attempts to create a more obedient and efficient race of slaves, allowing them to raise the dead to bolster their own numbers and regain control. These Dur'Necrundii were a devastating success, breaking morale throughout the northern and most heavily populated areas of the Erana Wood as Eylv watched thier ancestors and fallen friends and kin marched against them. However, the Draconians did not realize their lack of control, as anyone killed by these "Deep Dead" would instantly stand back up and march against the living, while the wounded could only weep in terror as their wounds festered and spread to consume them into the dead ranks in mere minutes. Within the first month of their creation, these first of the Necrudii had quadrupled their original number, and the new "recruits" were impervious to the Dragon's attempts to control them. After two months, the Draconians of Erana Wood fled, leaving the Eylv to their fate, surrounded and quickly growing outnumbered. After nearly two centuries, the Eylver were still entrenched against the roaming Dur'Necrundii, successfully regaining nearly all of the southern half of the Wood and managing to keep the Dur'Necrundii contained in the Netana, or "Silent," Forest with the implementation of the Rangewardens, three man squads of expert archers, swordsmen, and a priest of Alnaera to sanctify potions to stop deathly wounds from consuming them.

Netana Forest was still only home to the Dur'Necrundii, and now Rothan.

With any luck, Rothan could soon see this damnable forest as nothing more than an unfortunate memory. But, for the moment, it would remain current in his thoughts.

Shortly after entering the Forest, against the determined warnings of the Rangewardens, Rothan had lost the trail amidst the near continuous encounters with Deep Dead. During the first few days, he'd used up half the week's supply of Wollen oil given him by the warden priest Tastilien, a lithe Eylv with a sharp nose, easy smile backed by three braids of evergreen hair from each temple and the base of his skull ending at his waist. The rest of his hair was short cut around his scalp and windblown back, giving Rothan the image of a deep hill eccentric rather than a priest. His garments did little to give the image of a priest, either, with a loose fitting earthen stained tunic covered with by a thick, yet surprising supple treebark hauberk and bracers and woven leaf cloak, complete with high birch bark boots and mottled green trousers. Upon closer examination, Rothan had found Tastilien's trousers were in fact made by fresh plucked blades of grass, and his tunic, he'd learned, was made from finely worked treated pine nettles. At the time, Rothan had been quite amazed at the empathy of the Eylv with their home.

As he had traveled deeper, and learned the value of keen awareness and the difficulty of finding efficacious shelter during night, Rothan had come across the haunting remnants of the Eylver, and Draconian, settlements and camps that once existed in this part of the Wood. The stone forts and mansions of the Draconian rulers were still visible, yet only just, as nature had worked fast to reclaim its territory. The Eylver homesteads, contrarily, were majorly unclaimed by the forest as there was little to reclaim, the majority of their buildings having been formed out of living trees themselves, carefully molded over time or manually carved from the great trunks of elder trees. Upon his closer inspection of these buildings, he found many were still fully furnished and habitable, some of the more established buildings containing a second story cleverly created by cutting stairs on the interior walls and hollowing out upstairs rooms of the interior, dead rings of the trees. Indeed, he'd even found many of the beds, tables, and other similar furniture items carved straight from the tree. Sinks and baths were made ingeniously by using the trees sap to make watertight containers of necessary size and using their empathy with the trees to divert excess water collected by the roots into faucet-like bores above them.

More importantly, however, Rothan had found the gardens, grown wild and sprawling. Having only the Forest itself to tend them, they had grown over nearly every aspect of the settlements, providing literal tons of fresh edible vegetables to refresh and refuel Rothan on his trek through to the far boundary. From tubers to melons, berries to fruits, Rothan took every opportunity to eat his fill and then some, and stuffing every spare inch of his battle pack in preparation of the next few days' travel.

Unfortunately, he had found his travel harder and more dangerous the deeper he went into Netana. Each passing day he had found more and more Dur'Necrundii, and each passing day he found something new about them. At he first encounter, they were much like the Necrundii he'd grown up re-killing, slow and tireless, direct in attack and generally easy to avoid if wanted. As he ventured further, he found himself many times surprised as suddenly the Deep Dead he faced were faster, or more competent in attack with parries and feints, earning him his most often need to use his precious Wollen oil to save himself. Taken fast enough, it stopped the spread and left a natural scar, but one time he'd been wounded and spent dangerous moments finishing off a second Dur'Necrundii that had accosted him before applying the oil; now a dark black spidery scar crept across his right upperarm.

Rothan stopped again, crouching low. A snap a short distance away and a muted grumbling brought him from his thoughts. Shooting quick glances around him, he saw no movement. Not a sure sign of safety, but good enough for the moment. He took a moment to unhook his axe and feel its weight in his hands. He was out of food, and hadn't seen a settlement in a few days, surviving off of the occasional berry bush and tubers he'd encountered growing out in the wilder wildness of Netana and was now feeling weak from his hunger truly. He only hoped that whatever was making the noise was alone, and easily dispatched. The muted grumbling continued ahead of him and to his right, from the south, accompanied by more brush crackling and snapping. Whatever it was, it wasn't concerned with keeping to the forest's haunting name.

Slowly creeping towards the noise, the grumbling became voices. He'd encountered Deep Necrundii making guttural clicks and dry wheezes since he had entered the forest, but these was definitely the voice of the living. Rothan didn't know if he should be glad or worried. After a moment silent debate, he decided to be wary. Anyone this deep in the forest was determined and very dangerous, else Rothan would not count himself among the living population here. After a few minutes, he was able to start understanding the words said, and could tell they were not Eylver. They were Paran, most likely a battalion, or the remnants of a one, of Paladins.

"...damned stink of fel magery is thick in this wood, Inquisitor Faergal. 'Tis truly the Council's blessin' we be given such a glorious mission to cleanse this wood of the Dragon's harbingers."

"Aye, soldier. By Koram's will, we'll be able to establish a good base to prepare our operations proper." Rothan assumed this was the voice of the Inquisitor.

"Inquisitor, permission for a question, sir."

"Speak, Paladin. We're all of open tongues past the holy walls."

"Yes, sir. What is your opinion of the Necrundii 'ere? I've not seen them turn a man with a swipe, an' specially never a High Inquisitor. You think mayhap they've got the Dragon's touch heavier in these trees than on the Plains of Dorlant or the Hills of Zerat?"

By this time, Rothan had crept close enough to make out the Paran troops. He numbered them at a score and a half, and based on the Paladin's remark he assumed they'd numbered more when they'd entered the Wood. About twenty-five of the men were fitted in polished metal hauberks sporting the Paran Holy Crest, a golden keep on a black background, vambraces and light mail greaves, mostly equipped with round shields across their backs and either longswords or hammers at their hips, with a few sporting shortbows and forearm bucklers instead. Another three wore half-plate covered with a with tabard with gold bordered Paran Crest and chain coif, two with broadswords and full shields, also emblazoned with the Paran Crest, the third with bucklers strapped to each forearm and a bastard sword hooked across his back.

The final soldier, however, caught most of Rothan's attention. He wore full plate, bone white, covered with a priestly vestment. The vestment doubled as a cloak, its rosy-white color flowing down to form a full cloak at his back, rising up to a cowl and halfmask that fully obscured his face in shadows, the front hanging down his torso to his knees, cinched at the waist by an equipment girdle laden with weapons and two wide, deep red streamers flowing from his shoulders to his knees. His fists were encase in layered hard leather gauntlets meeting plate bracers with chainmail joints up to the hauberk, and similarly with his legs. From under the cloak piece of his vestment was the handle of a great sword, at each hip was a broadsword and double sided battleaxe, with wide-bladed short sword sheathed across the back of his girdle. On thigh sheathes beneath the axe and sword were daggers, with another dagger sheath along each greave at the ankle. The man, Rothan assumed the Inquisitor Faergal, seemed in want of an army to fight on his own.

The party was traveling across Rothan's field of view, crouched low in the heavy brush and resting on the butt of his axe. They forward soldiers, a few of those in the metal hauberks and mostly likely the lowest ranked, were cutting a path through the brush with their longswords for those following. The men were marching three abreast, with the Inquisitor in the middle and off to one side, closer to Rothan's hiding spot. The Inquisitor was facing away from him to one of the men in half-plate, presumably the Paladin who'd asked him about the Necrundii.

The Inquisitor finally replied. "According to our historical texts, this forest was the spawning ground of the Dragons' magery to engineer a way to further bend us to their will. We know the Eylv were their first attempts, and even that minor effect of their magery twisted them to their will. Those damn Eylver are cunning in their aiding efforts to the Dragon's oppression effort. One can only assume that we've come to the deeper sanctuary of their last surface domain this side of the Drakenwall."

The Paladin nodded in comprehension. "Hmm... So these Necrundii are a more perfected twisting to force slaves to their fold, their foul touch able to convert any to the Dragon's will, then."

"Yes, it seems so," grunted the Inquisitor. "All the more reason to stop this evil. Koram's will be done!"

"Koram's will be done!" echoed the others.

Rothan sat in shock. He'd heard of twisted beliefs of Paran, that all other Nations were simply servants and spies of the Draconians, but never believed it. "That's why no diplomat has returned from Paran... damnable wretches!" he muttered, then began to move away as they disappeared into deeper into the forest. Damnable wretches, indeed.

As the day neared evening, Rothan finally encountered the next empty settlement. It was very small, only a few buildings and the cobbled remnants of the headmaster's building. He'd been lucky, aside from the Paran soldiers he had only come across four individual Dur'Necrundii this day, and they'd been the slow, stupid kind. He entered the settlement and did a cursory search of the buildings for any others hiding inside.

As he reached the far building, he paused. He could have sworn something moved inside. It was subtle, like that a shadow darkening slightly in the rear of the building. Gripping his axe tightly, he slowly limped to the threshold and waited. Something definitely was in there, he could just barely make out the rough shape of a something crouched down near the far wall in the deep afternoon shadows. It seemed to be waiting.

Rothan growled, "Come and get me, you black abomination!"

"Bhold... wuurdzz... mohr... tul..." Came the dry, wheezing response from the shadows. For a moment, Rothan was frozen in shock. Never, never had he entertained the thought of speech, let alone any form of thought from the dead. This, surely, was something to note.

The form made no move toward him. Rothan risked a glance behind him, lest any accomplices were attempting to flank him secretly. Nothing, and the thing remained where it was. Rothan ventured to sate his wary curiosity. "What are you? Venture into the light so I may see my quarry before the kill."

Slowly, the thing moved to the edge of the shadows before speaking again. "Waat... ehn... I...? I... hunghar..." And it lunged at Rothan, as lightning strikes the plain it slashed with rotted claws and jagged teeth. As it passed from the shadows, Rothan caught a clear sight of this form of Deep Dead. Its was hunched upon itself like an animal, and the thin, leathery flesh was pulled taut over its bones and blackened with age. Its maw had become drawn and fanged from decades of twisted magic warping and consuming the soul to the will of the darkness that animated it. The nails of the fingers were long and sharp, each one an individual dagger.

By luck, Rothan's leg gave out from exhaustion at that moment, and he toppled to his right as the thing flew overhead and into the open air of the settlement. He managed to tuck into a half roll and came up on a knee, only to find the ravaged Deep Dead bearing upon him again with thick tendrils of smoke raising from its hide. Planting the front of the axe ahead of him, the Deep's face crunched against the knicked and pitted wolfshead. Rothan crashed against the ancient hometree as the surprising weight of the twisted thing bore upon him and found himself staring into the wolf-made face crater of the most interesting thing to happen that day.

Dagger-tipped hands clawed at Rothan for fleshy purchase, spurring him to simultaneously shove against brittle ribs and roll to his side. The Dur'Necrundii sprung off him and collapsed into a pocket of setting sun. Thick, curdy smokeflesh fell off in waves, cloaking the disgusting thing in its own shadow. Grinding out what Rothan could only hope was a moan, it bounded into nearby shadows trailing its foul fog behind.

Scrambling back to his feet, Rothan reasserted his grip on the palm polished handle of his axe. He felt a trickle of blood, maybe sweat, worm its way own his throat. It was nearby, no time to break out the Wollen oil. The forest murmured in a dead wind.

With grating effort, he heard: "Yuu... yuu-uh hunghar... too..." The voice trailed away, as though it was growing more distant. Faintly, the first Dur'Necrundii laughed a dry gurgle, and Rothan thought he heard the word kurranei. It rang of something older than the Dragons, but Rothan determined not to dwell.

He sat back and began checking himself for any cuts or wounds. There was a shallow cut under his throat above the collar of his leather jerkin, and he quickly rubbed some Wollen oil into it as he watched the twice dead corpse in front of him slowly evaporate in the fading light.

After being sure there was nothing else nearby, and double checking that he hadn't missed a wound, Rothan set about eating edible vegetation and stockpiling any excess in his pack. As the sun began to set, he went into the far homestead that had housed the speaking Necrundii. While the first floor was openly accessible to any wandering Dur'Necrundii, the upstairs section still had its door. A quick inspection showed the single room on the second floor to be empty of anything but an old grass bed, long rotted away to minor scrap remnants of moss and soil, and a small writing table in the nearby wall.

Shutting the door behind him, he cut off the table and used it to shore up the door. He used the remaining pieces to set a simple falling trap at the one window, not to stop something from coming through but to make enough noise to wake him in time. Using his pack as a pillow and his traveling cloak as a blanket, he made sure his arms were free and his axe was close, and drifted into a light, uneasy sleep.