And Fragarach Sang [Solo/Finished]

[Donovan]

The air was heavy in Pherae. The sound of the horse’s hooves were muffled in the muddy earth. Rain cascaded from the canopy of leaves onto the large hooded cloaks of the travelers. Over the past hour they could feel the water seeping through the thick cloth, soaking their skin. The Traveler on the right reached under his cloak and pulled out a small iron box and a cheap, wooden smoking pipe. His calloused hand opened the box, took a pinch of tobacco and futilely attempted to light a match despite the harsh wind and falling rain.
“Gods above.” A gruff voice muttered from beneath the cloak as the match went out before the pipe could be lit. “This. Right here. This is why I shoulda picked up some magic. Instant spark.” The fingers suddenly snapped. “Straight outta my fingertips.”

A familiar, charming voice rang out through the rain, “Glad to know you have such lofty aspirations, Doogan.” A laugh escaped from beneath the cloak on the middle rider. It was light and piercing, like the sound of silver striking.

“What’d’you want, Don, I’m a practical man. A little instant fire’s a nice thing to have at the end of the night.” Doogan ripped off his hood, exposing the dirty blonde hair beneath. It was already wet from where the cloak had failed to keep off the rain. “And can we please get inside sometime before Elibe floods? I mean, Elmine take me, I don’t exactly have ‘aspirations’ to die from the Cough.”

The voice of an even younger man piped out from the left. “We should be there any minute. If it wasn’t for the rain, we’d see the lights by now I think.” Brandon, covered in a dark blue cloak, was doing his best to check a map without it being soaked through. To his credit he was doing a rather decent job at it. “I would like to get the horses out of the wet soon. They have been riding a while today.”

“We all deserve a good night’s rest and a better nights drink. It’ll be worth it once we get there lads, trust me.” The Silver Tongued mercenary scratched the ear of the ever growing fox that sat beneath his cloak in a failing bid to avoid the rain. The little beast cooed, evoking a sarcastic snort from Aonbharr, the white manned mare clearly not as enthusiastic about the rain as her rider, with his happy smile.

See, Donovan had always loved the rain. He felt he had a kinship to it all his life. Some said rain was the gods means of crying. But Don never felt so inclined. No he was certain that the rain was merely a means of showing the audience that something significant was about to happen. A cleansing. Nature’s velvet curtain.

Though when he did make out the signs of life at the Climbing Monk’s Inn, he wasn’t saddened to be out of the rain. For he had business to attend to. He had answers to find. And with this knowledge, the curtain could fall over this scene and make way for the next act. The climax. The true war. And Donovan's revenge. 

[Donovan]

The trio of travelers entered the warmth of the pub. It was crowded. Pherae wasn’t the sort to have as much undead as the rest of Lycia, so travelers were much more common - and even bandits wanted to get out of a storm. The hearth was surrounded, and the warm light of fire enveloped the room. “Ima tend to the horses, Sir.” Brandon piped beside the Silver tongue. He drew his hood over his head and stepped back outside quickly.

Doogan laughed heartily. “How you managed to get that kid to be your squire when you’re barely even old enough mount a horse is beyond me, boy.” But he didn’t say horse. The old Halberdier stripped his cloak from his shoulders to reveal that he did not wear his usual crimson half plate, but simple leathers, with a faded red shirt and canvas pants.

“Well, Doogan, some of us have no need for horses.” But he didn’t say horses. “I for one, prefer the art of discussion. It’s a subtle game. I’d assume far too subtle for the likes of yourself.” The mercenary’s bright green eyes scanned the Inn looking for the woman that they’d come to meet. Grey hair and a purple cloak. She’s probably an Elder mage with such a cliche dark colorings.

“Nothing wrong with paying a horse for a solid night’s ride. They’ve worked hard. And they’re good at what they do — Ooo chicken!’ Doogan’s sturdy frame moved forward, having spotted the only thing he was drawn to more than a horse with a black mane; Food.

Don chuckled and went back to his search. True historians were sometimes hard to find in Elibe. Especially ones that weren’t assigned to courts. And especially ones that didn’t merely specialize in keeping the history of a noble house. And Don didn’t need any information about who the rightful king of Bern was 15 generations ago. No, he sought far more ancient and arcane knowledge.

Grey hair and a purple cloak. Rhiannon. A strange name. The mercenary couldn’t help but wonder where this strange woman came from, to have taken up studying the history and lore of monsters so far before their return. He’d only recently found out that she even existed, and all of his leads sent him in this direction. Why the Climbing Monk, Donovan wasn’t sure. But all at once, he spotted her. More spritely than he’d expected for a woman of her age, and without a doubt the most stereotypical Elder mage he’d ever seen. He took a step toward her, when a hush fell over the crowd and Rhiannon’s attention flew to the lifted half stage the Silver Tongue hadn’t noticed when he’d entered the Inn.

A sharp, clear note rung out from a small harp being played by a woman with fire in her hair. And suddenly a hypnotic melody spun forth from her fingers, weaving and twisting through the hearts and minds of everyone in the pub. A warm sensation filled Donovan and a true smile unlike any he’d worn in years found back to him. From the moment that the girl started playing, he was brought home by the music flowing from her fingers. And soon he noticed the fire, as calm and fluid as a creak, beckoned by her hands into the world.

[Donovan]

It was the strangest thing, watching fire dance. Not just flicker and blow in the wind of a dark room, but truly move with purpose and grace. Donovan was transfixed as the fire melded and shifted forms, one instant fluttering through the air, and the next flaring in different colors as the notes of the harp changed. And the woman playing the flame was unlike any the young actor had ever seen before, she was tall and lean, her fingers thin and perfect for plucking the strings of a harp. Her hair was a fiery red and seemed to move with the same strange grace and control as the magic weaving through the air. The sight alone was enough to catch the performer’s breath, but when a thread of song broke from her lips, Donovan couldn’t help but suck in a gasp of air. She voice was clean and piercing. It shattered through his head and his heart and before he knew it, he was sitting in a chair, forgetting all thoughts of revenge or purpose or duty. He was as captive as any young farmhand had ever been when his father played.

“Now gather round masters and hear my tale,
Of a woman named Anne, so tall and fair.
Lived she with her ma, though her heart did fail.
Anne saw her ma fall, and her soul did tear.

With a heavy head and a graceful step
Anne did leave the home within she had grown.
For a distant land she made sure to prep
With Tome and Sword and mother’s ancient stone.

Had only she known the power within,
She may have sought out her old father too.
He was her missing link, her final kin.
With eyes of yellow and hair that grew blue.

If only her wanderlust could e’er cease,
Perhaps then, one day, she would find her peace.”

As she sang, the fire melded and grew. Expanding and dancing to reflect the lyrics of her song. Changing color and flashing between tomes and swords and the imagery of a little girl leaving her home. The whole inn was still silent as a grave. Not a single man, woman, or child’s attention drifted from the rare and otherworldly spectacle that met their gaze. Even Doogan sat with his mouth half filled with chicken, his brown eyes dancing as he watched the spectacle before him. Donovan felt fairly certain that the majority of these people hadn’t really seen magic before, not real magic at least. This was certainly no display of force, but it was deeply subtle and, as far as he could tell, difficult magic.

But the true beauty lay not in the woman’s body, or the spells that she cast, but the music that she wove. Like a ghost through a hollow theater, her music rang through every heart and soul, tearing it asunder before leaving it whole once more, stitching it back together piece by piece. As purely fascinating as the magic she cast was, it was a shame that something as simple as fire distracted from the pure work of genius that had just graced the halls of the Climbing Monk.

“She’s good, isn’t she?” Rhiannon ask, having sat down next to the mercenary, her smile warm and her eyes sharp.

[Donovan]

The silver tongue turned to face Rhiannon, she had a kind smile and warm, lavender eyes. “She certainly draws a crowd, doesn’t she? Though, if I’m being honest, I feel like her music deserves more credit than her magic.”

The woman’s face showed the edges of a smile, “There aren’t enough men left in this world who see past the flash and the dazzle, into the real beauty of art. Aine has a way with her music that is unlike any one else. I think that’s why the spirits are so drawn to her.” Donovan ran his fingers through his hair and shook his head as the girl named Aine left the stage.

His eyes trailed the room, looking for his companions. Doogan had regained his composure and had gone back to eating and flirting with the woman who seemed to own the inn Probably trying to get food for free. Brandon was nowhere to be seen, and was most likely still out talking to the horses. “That… Is something I’d like to ask you about later.”

“But, in the meantime?”

“In the meantime, I have few questions I believe only you can answer, Rhiannon.” The old woman’s head tilted at the sound of her name, and she grinned as wide as a wolf.

---

Brandon shook his head in an attempt to keep a smidgeon of water from draining into his eyes. The cavalier scratched behind Franz’s ear, the horse nuzzled at his rider’s neck and licked some of the water that had pooled on his shoulder. “Have you ever seen so much rain, boy?” Brandon froze when he saw the look of fear on Aonbharr’s face. His hand slid down to the sword at his hip, and he drew the iron blade as he spun around to face whatever had come to join him in the stables.

---

“So the Silver Tongue knows my name? What an honor that is.” Rhiannon chuckled to herself, “You’ve been establishing quite a reputation for yourself around these parts, Donovan. Some of the rumors claim you’re a street urchin, who’s never met his family. Others say you cast aside your noble family to live amongst the common folk. There seem to be very little about you that people can agree on. Other than you have no last name, you kill quite a good number of monsters - both undead and of the human variety - and you have a spectacular way with words.”

Donovan leaned back from woman who knew too much. He hadn’t expected her to tell him that he was becoming a figure amongst the Lycian poor, let alone that she had heard anything about his existence. “Silver Tongue? Well. That’s better nickname then some, I suppose. For the record. There’s no noble family, nor any street urchinery.” His head tilted in thought, “Is that a word…? No probably not. I’m just your run of the mill bastard son of a Trouper and a Cleric.”

“Oh, a most classic pairing. But you’d rather get to the point, wouldn’t you?”

“That was sort of the thought, yeah. What do you know about the undead and have you ever heard of them organized?”

Rhiannon’s eyes lit up and she squealed in glee, like a little girl. “Oooooo, my boy. Are you asking me about a Lich King?”

[Donovan]

Donovan smirked and shook his head in confusion. “Lich King? Like from the old stories. How’d that rhyme go?

“Lost a marble, lost a shoe?
You know just who’s coming for you.
Old and smelly, lips all blue.
Dead as a doornail and hungry for you.
Lurking in the dark and scratching at the door,
Don’t open that window, he’s staring at you.
He’s calling all his friends from under the floor.
Don’t breath too loud, he’s in here with you.

Longing for life’s blood and all the strength it’ll bring,
Never listen too close or you just might hear him sing.
Standing at your shoulder now, can’t you feel his sting.
He’s got you in his clutches now.
Lich King. Lich King.”

---

“Wh-who’re you?” The young cavalier asked, his sword hand firmly grasping the hilt of his weapon. But the figure just stood in shadowed. It was tall and thin. And it was humming. What was it humming?

---

Donovan couldn’t help but laugh. The old nursery rhyme had always sent a shiver down his spine. Why kids were so creepy, he’d never understand. But ultimately, it was just a weird, children’s rhyme. Most importantly, it was vague. Nothing too specific to trace back to anything credible and real. Most of those old rhymes that had a solid basing in the supernatural tended to reveal more truth than you’d see at first glance. But this was too much talk of old superstitions, and seemed to just talk about your run of the mill Revenant or Bonewalker if anything.

“Yep. That’s the one.” Rhiannon looked at him and grinned. He couldn’t help but feel like she was actually just a little cracked, with how she kept looking at him.

“I don’t think what’s going on is anything so… Childish?”

“A Lich King is far more than a child’s rhyme, my boy. It is an intelligent, powerful creature bound and loyal to only the Void. You’d be wise to take this more seriously.” Her voice was solid, resolute. Certain. Had this been 2 years ago, Donovan likely would have laughed at her confidence and brushed her off as a crazy old woman. But now? Now he knew better that to ignore a fair warning when it came.

“I suppose that’s why I came to you for advice. To make me take things more seriously.”

Rhiannon patted his cheek with just enough force that he couldn’t tell if it was grandmotherly or exceedingly patronizing. Perhaps they were one and the same. He’d never known his grandmothers. “My boy, the Lich Kings have always plagued our worlds. In one form or an other. There are signs of them cropping up throughout history, if you know what signs to look for. They’re smart, know how to stay hidden. And they like their sleep, I think. There never seems to be instances of them for more than a few years at a time, and almost always with centuries between. Their goal as far as I can tell was to destroy. So utterly and completely that not a trace of them or their fallen foes could be found, after they went back to sleep.”

Donovan nodded. He supposed it was possible for such creatures to exist. After all, there were winged men with pet doogs the size of a 2 horse drawn carriage on an island a mere ship’s ride from Elibe. Why not a Lich King.

“So what do they do, then? How do they fight?”

“How does a man fight? Or a woman? Or any creature able to wage war? With tools. Some wield magic far stranger than you’ve likely seen. Some carry with them swords and axes and bows. But that’s all speculation, oh glib one. I can only analyze what few surviving records there are, that I have access too. I can’t give you a truly definitive answer. As much as I wish I had one to give.”

“Why doesn’t he ask Fragarach?”

[Donovan]

The voice rang clear through the inn, unsuspected and ethereal. Donovan’s attention snapped up and he locked eyes with the songstress. She was as beautiful as her voice. Her hair was fire and her eyes were the sea, both the green lights of its shallows and the darkest, impenetrable blues of its depths. Her skin was fair, but scarred. Marred by small burns and silver streaks alike. Each one told a story.

After what felt like an eternity, he registered what she’d said and felt his hand move to the sword on his hip and is thoughts became less of her beauty and more of her mystique. “Now how do you know the name of my sword?”

Aine looked at him with curiosity, her hand idly brushed a hair from her eye. “I heard it, didn’t I? It’s been calling out since you walked in the door.” Her hand drifted toward the handle of the blade, but pulled back just before she touched it. She looked up and met Don’s gaze. “May I?”

The Silver Tongue bristled a bit at the question. To ask to hold his sword was like asking to hold her harp. It was less holding a tool or and instrument, but a piece of him. Rhiannon smiled knowingly and rolled her eyes. “My dear, would you appreciate him asking you to hold your harp? Or your voice? To a sellsword, a blade is equal. A sword as ancient as this, that’s bound to you as closely the two before us? That is something else entirely.”

Aine’s eyes went wide and she drew her hand back as if it had touched hot coals. “I had no idea, Gran. Sir, I cannot apologize enough —“


“Don’t. You meant no harm.” Don couldn’t help but smile. He’d done had the same reaction when he was a boy and tried to play another’s lute. His father had raked him over the coals. It was refreshing to see a kindred spirit after so long amongst fighters, rogues, and farmhands with higher aspirations. “If I can’t trust a fellow trouper with Frag than I can trust no one.”


“Oh a trouper?” Her smile returned like the wind. “What d’you play, then?”


“Words and hearts. I’m an actor primarily.”

She frowned playfully. “Actors! The worst of the lot, never enough work for mummers.” She reached out a squeezed his arm to reassure him she was kidding.

“A good performance goes a long way, Red. My words have gotten me out of nearly as many dangerous situations as my sword.”

Rhiannon cleared her throat. “I’m sorry, were we not having a conversation before my granddaughter so rudely interrupted us?” She winked at Aine.

“Granddaughter? You two are related?”


“Mhm. It’s quite nice, having an entertainer in the family to help me waste my time before the years take these old bones.” Aine hit her grandmother’s shoulder. Hard.

“Woah!”


“She’s a healer, she’ll be fine.” Rhiannon’s barely wrinkled hand pushed Aine’s head and the two laughed.

Don sat, mostly confused. Strangely at ease. “So… How exactly is Frag supposed to tell me about the Lich King?”


Aine and Rhiannon snapped back to reality and gave him a serious look. “Well, he’s fought such beasts before, hasn’t he? Have you really not been listening?”

---

Brandon drew his sword, and reached for the hunting horn on Franz’s saddle. He may die out alone, but his killer wouldn’t survive the wrath of Don and Doogan, of that he’d make sure. The figure stepped closer to his and Brandon raised his blade to strike, drawing the horn to his lips. A man stepped out from behind the figure in the doorway and between the two, his arms raised. He was just a man, though he was wetter than a eel. “Jesus, Armon, when someone asks your name with a sword drawn, you bloody tell them!” Brandon did not lower his blade. “My name’s Hutch. This is Armon, we’re just a couple of mercenaries looking for a warm patch of floor and a place to dry off. You got a name, son?”

Brandon refused to lower his blade. “Brandon. Why don’t you two step inside. And don’t call me son.” The quiet figure of Armon stood completely still until Hutch pushed him back and pulled him inside, muttering about crazy sword wielding maniacs. But while the strange men were gone, Brandon didn’t shake the uneasy feeling, so he hurried to finish up with the horses before stepping inside for a much deserved bite of warm food.

[Donovan]

The Silver Tongue’s mind raced. He hadn’t been dreaming. He hadn’t just been in the heat of the battle. “That was actually Frag’s voice in my head? My sword is… sentient?” He looked down at the horn handle on the sword. The sword so old that such a handle should have degraded long before it had found his hand. “Wait. How did you know I named it Fragarach?”

This time Rhiannon couldn’t help but laugh. She patted him on the shoulder like he was a confused child. “Donovan, you didn’t name this blade, the blade told you it’s name.”

Don raised an eyebrow. “Well… I suppose if it’s possible that it’s aware of it’s existence it must be able to…. Wait. How does any of this work? I’ve never heard of this. Even in plays and stories, the swords aren’t actually capable of-” the mercenary stumbled over himself, this a greater destruction of his worldview than learning Dragons were real, this was more to take in than the entirety of that man-beast filled hell.

The sword seemed to be humming at his hip, as if it was begging to be held. But Don didn’t feel like he could touch the tool again. Not if it was, well, alive. “When magic weapons are forged, a spirit are infused into the blade. Whether anima or light, even the nether can be folded into seen by skilled enough hands.”

“And this spirit has a personality, a motivation. In some ways spirits are far more simple than we are.”

“In others infinitely more complicated.”

Aine’s hand reached out and took a hold of Donovan’s. “I promise you, I’m not half as dim witted as I look right now.” The woman smiled and a breath of warmth spread over the mercenary.

“Most men and woman who find themselves blessed - or cursed - with the possession of such a weapon never realize what they have in their hands. Most never even bond with the blade enough to utilize the magic within. Let alone hear it’s voice. Fewer still realize where that voice is coming from.”

“But it is beautiful once you hear it. It is like listening to music from another world. All at once so familiar and yet… so unobtainable. It’s like the spirits speak notes that we could not even fathom to play. It’s haunting.” Aine slowly lead Donovan’s hand down toward the sword at his hip. And when he touched the hilt, he felt a rush of energy serge up his arm and the room fell away. The warmth of the tavern, the sound of the crowd. The grandmotherly woman he'd come here to see, and even the beautiful red haired woman that held his hand. All were cleared from his mind's eye with a gust of wind, and all that was left was a perpetual, silent storm. Still, and great, and waiting. So, are you finally ready to hear me?.

[Donovan]

The Silver Tongue looked around him and saw… nothing. The voice had appeared without a source. Without a conduit. But it was familiar. Like an old friend. An old friend that has a cut and dry sense of right and wrong. Who are you? Are you Fragarach? He couldn’t explain how he felt no panic. No terror or confusion. He knew he was perfectly safe. And was as strangely calm as the storm that he was… floating in? It’s best not to think about it, Donovan. The physics of your realm don’t apply in my world. It wouldn’t serve you well to focus too much on how thing work here.

Donovan swore he saw something flitter through the storm as the voice called out to him. There was a shadow. Or a pulse. Maybe the wind itself was forming some sort of shape? He could not be certain. I am your trusted protector. And your tool of destruction. And frankly. I cannot nail down how I feel about you, boy. Donovan shook his head in confusion. Both at the words the voice had spoken and at the shape that he swore he saw once again. Just beyond his vision. And I’m not sure what you mean by that, Frag.

For the first time since he entered this strange dream state, Donovan felt a rush of air. When the voice responded, it felt frustrated, pestered. You are not someone whom I thought would be able to wield me. Yet here you are, able to feel my voice and enter your consciousness into my world. Suddenly Don’s mind flashed back to the day he’d found Fragarach. When he and Perun had faced off against that Bael. All at once, the winds around him danced and changed themselves, redefining their shape and molding into the Giant and the Silver Tongue. This Perun formed of wind stood at the top of the stairs and tried to pick up a familiar blade. Hold on. If I’m not someone you want wielding you, then why didn’t you just do that thing that you did with Perun. Why not just - "fly" yourself away?

There was a sharp crack in the air, and Donovan realized that the spirit was laughing. Unfortunately, I do not get to chose every wielder I possess. Sometimes, I simply belong in someone’s hand. And so it seems, is the case with you. I myself am not always sure of why this happens. But such was the case with the First. If you’ want to know, you’d have to ask my forgers. Though, by now, they’d likely be long dead. A flood rushed Donovan’s mind as he realized the wealth of knowledge he’d just discovered. This sword knew stories more ancient than he could ever read. It could show him the great adventures of Danu and Perun.

My past is a discussion for another time, Donovan. Let us get to the matter you sought out Rhiannon to reveal.

Hold on. How did you know I was thinking about your past. I didn’t say anything —

You haven’t said anything at all. Your thoughts, whether conscious or subconscious are felt by me. How do you think I keep up that field of air surrounding my blade that helps you redirect your foes' attacks? But let us get to it, Liar. To the Lich King.

[Donovan]

The endless wind began to shift and tumble. And all at once, Donovan could see a fortress - or at least the shadow of one. It was familiar, but lavish. And with a sudden rush, the fortress zoomed away and he flew toward the sky until a landmass was lying below him, a landmass he recognized as Lycia from the map he’d grown accustomed to consulting on his travels. But as Fragarach’s voice rang through Don’s body, the landmass seemed to change, the shadows of the cities began to shrink and disappear, until they were fewer and farther between. Eventually, the signs of civilization regrew. But not into a world that the Silver Tongue could recognize. Something that came… before. I was created, millennia ago, to protect people and dragon kin alike. Unlike the destruction wrought by those Weapons you’ve funneled into legend, those weapons that destroyed the balance of the world, I was not made to slaughter wantonly, but to protect from a far more… ancient and dangerous foe. These enemies created something abominable.

The wind shifted again and Don could saw a figure, dark and terrible, it’s features impossible to make out. The figure raised its hand and another emerged, this one wearing thick armor and carrying an axe. The second figure bore a crown, and it’s face was gaunt and sunken. The First Lich King is older than I. Far, far older. It was truly a king, once, considered kind and wise. But one day the king found a weapon. An axe that was touched by the Abyss itself. It seeped into his mind, tainted him. And eventually, he turned the axe on his wife and son. His household lay slaughtered before his own guard could kill him. But that was not his end.

The Others brought him back, the axe was theirs as was his mind. And thus was his body. The king was the first. The first undead and the most terrible. His murderers watched as their friends and coworkers rose from the ground once more, clothes dripping blood and eyes empty. The Dead King hungered. Though it could not feed. It could not ever be satisfied. It was compelled to conquer. To kill. With each passing day it became more intelligent, and with each passing day it became more powerful. Eventually, this first Lich King was stopped by an alliance between the Dragon Kings and the Realms of men alike. The axe and body of the Lich King destroyed. The undead he’d returned burned by the millions.

But it was not the end. Centuries later, decades before my creation. A Lich King returned. This one was not a king in it’s past life, but they had been a great warrior. Her conquering was slower, but more stable. The growing tensions between man and dragon made any united front difficult to conjure. Danu and Lugh made me, forged me together to help the Hero defeat this new Lich King. Together we pushed back the threat, leading mercenaries of human and dragon kin alike, against the undead horde. And we slew this new Lich King, as well. The Lich King itself is not impossible to defeat. Rather it is it's armies, it's control that spreads over the world like a plague.

But the hand that I was made to rest in withered and past as all you fleshy creatures are, and I was passed from Hero to Hero. Fool to Fool. Until I was found by the Bastard. The son of Marquess Laus was raised to die for his father, but upon our meeting, he lived to protect the people. Upon the rise of the third Lich King, I tried to warn him. I tried to reach out to him as I had to you, but he could not hear my voice. He could not heed my warning until it was too late. The Lich King grew in strength and this time, there were no dragons left to aid in our fight. To lay waste to it’s armies of the undead.

And that was what left us. As it spread over Lycia. Survivors hiding and no armies remaining to protect them. Save one. The Bastard had finally heard my voice, but he lacked the manpower to conquer the Lich King’s force. For every man he lost was a man the Dead King gained. So he made a gambit, a last stand. The wind, which had been shifting to represent the words of the spirit shifted once more into the fortress. It still peeked Don’s curiosity. He had seen it before, he was certain. At once it clicked. He’d been there. He’d seen these wall in Ruin. He’d seen the bodies that littered the floor of the fortress, lost in the vast wilderness of Laus. And there he’d found Fragarach.

We fought the Lich King, but its numbers were too great. Too vast to overcome. But we wounded it. Deeply. The Bastard and I did what we could to the creature who feeds. And it went to rest. To recover its strength and wait to grow its army again.

When you picked up the blade wherein I am bound, it awoke. It knew that it needed to raise its armies once again. We will not be able to stop it. Not unless was act quickly, Liar. Not unless we strike in force and annihilate its forces before they grow beyond us. The fortress disappeared and the wind formed itself into a pair of enormous, storm grey eyes.

Not unless we stand. Together

---

The Silver Tongue opened his eyes as the music and life of the tavern flooded in, almost as if he had never left. Aine’s hand still rested on his own as if she had only just guided it to Fragarach’s hilt. “Was it what you expected?”

[Donovan]

The warmth of the inn crashed into the mercenary, overwhelming his mind with new information. He was suddenly very aware of his senses. He noticed every scent; the stew, the smoke, the stench of the local road warriors, and the sweet, fresh smell of rain that drifted through every time the door was opened. He hadn’t noticed how vibrant and bright the inn was - decorated in vivacious reds and yellows. It was homier than he’d noticed at first. While the sounds of the voices rang out over the rest of the bar, the Silver Tongued Mercenary became acutely aware of the layers that composed the tavern. The clinking of silverware and glasses. The fire crackling in the hearth. The rustle of armor and clothing.

“It’s like nothing I’ve ever experienced. Has the bar always been so… lively?”

Rhiannon smiled, her warm eyes seemed more keen than ever now. It was like seeing the sun for first time. “You’ve been to the other side of the veil. If only for a moment. It might take you a minute to readjust.” She looks down at the sword, a hunger seems to grip her gaze. “So. Did you get what you came here for?”

---

Brandon sat with Doogan. The pair occasionally looking over at their commander. Doogan ate his chicken quietly. Each time the Halberdier glanced back at the Silver Tongue, Rhiannon, and Aine, he would aggressively take a chunk out of the chicken. “Bloody Bastard isn’t even a knight, but every damn girl flocks straight to him.”

“You’re kidding me, Doogan.”

“He’s not even that good looking! He’s just all clever with his words..” Doogan grumbles sadly into his chicken. The waitress smiles at his complaint and looks past Doogan to where Donovan sat.

“Sorry, love. He is that good looking. Though, little boy blue over here gives him a run for his money.” She smirked as she refilled Brandon’s cup of wine and squeezes the young farmer’s arm before she sauntered off. Brandon looks at the boy with a dangerous rage.

“Hey, I didn’t do anything.”

“Don’t try me, Bran.”

“Excuse me, sirs. Are you friends with the Silver Tongue?” Hutch and Armon, the two men from the stables approached Brandon and Doogan.

“We were hoping to meet him.” Armon’s voice was deep and off-putting, like spilt pitch slowly rolling down the hill. Doogan looked up and smiled at the two, though they wouldn’t know the crass man rarely smiled so broadly. His hand casually slipped behind his back and slowly drew his dagger. “Is that so?”

“You have business with him? What sort?” Brandon was not as sly as the former guard, Hutch noticed the hostility.

“We seek to join his corps. We like what you Nameless are doing. Hunting monsters. Taking a stand where the government won’t.” The man’s eyes lit up excitedly. “I heard he has a magic sword that can kill a man with a single blow.”

Doogan looked at him blankly, his hand and it’s dagger hid next to his leg. “Boy, any sword can kill a man with a single blow.” Brandon couldn’t help himself but to laugh.

“He’s in the middle of a conversation right now. I’d suggest you wait for him to be free.” Brandon gestures to wait, and Hutch looks at him with contempt. Evidently, the man does not enjoy being talked down to by a “boy”.

[Donovan]

The Silver Tongue and the women talked for another hour. And in some ways he felt more at home with them than he had felt with anyone but his troupe. It was like an emptiness had been filled that he’d forgotten was there. But as with all good things, it had to come to an end. Aine looked at him and tilted her head to the left, a smile touching her lips. She sighed, put her hands on the table and pushed herself to her feet. “I have another set to play, but do stay to hear another song. I’m sure a hardened, war worn mercenary such as yourself could use a nice night by a fireplace with a little music with the company of elders.” Her tone was mocking, just slightly, but he couldn’t help but smile and chuckle.

He responded in an equally mocking tone. “I’ll be sure to stay for a tune or two. Do play the Ten Tin Thistles, though. It is my all time favorite.” He raised an eyebrow in challenge and Aine reached over to gently smack the side of his head. Ten Tin Thistles was one of the oldest, most well know songs in the world. Known in every country due to it’s obscenely simple melody and nonsensical lyrics. It was the bane of every musician to be asked to play the old drinking song, and Donovan knew that as well as anyone.

Aine left the table and Don watched as she did, a wistful look haunting his face. Rhiannon shook her head at him. “A word of warning from an old woman. That girl is as wild as the wind and as fleeting as fire. She is so kindred to the spirits because she might as well be one.”

The silver tongued mercenary laughed at the Seer’s warning. “I fear you’ve over estima—“

“My boy, you do quite a lot of talking, but do us all a favor and hear for once. Hear your heart as you heard your sword tonight. Do not ignore it, but be weary. For a heart knows not but what it craves. I have seen many men fall to the look on your face when you talk to my Aine.” Don suddenly realized that Rhiannon was Aine’s granddaughter and felt a wave of embarrassment wash over him. “Just try and focus on the —“

“Excuse me? Silver Tongue?” Hutch approached while Doogan was passed out at the bar and Bran was distracted by a very personable waitress. Armon followed along quite and dark in the back. “We were hoping to talk.”

Rhiannon arched her eyebrow and nodded, standing to remove herself from the conversation. In a sense, Donovan was relieved. “So you two think I’m the Silver Tongue?”

“Your men already confirmed that you were, sir. We’re not looking for trouble, or nothing. Believe me.”

“Uh-huh… Then what is it you want exactly?”

“We… uh… we appreciate your work, sir.”

“We want to help.”

“Join you, that is. If you’ll take an old swordsman and his fellows.”

Don looked over the man in grey. Hutch was approaching 30. He’d certainly seen a scrap or two, though hadn’t come out too much worse for the wear. His stance was confident, similar to Dumas. He may have been a Sword Master. They had need for their kind. Then he turned to the dark man behind him. He was quiet, but imposing. Like a nothingness that stretched to the beyond. He carried no weapon, nor shield. Though he stood firm and diligent. Like he’d served in the military.

“We’ve been recruiting for months. Surely, since you’ve heard of what we’re trying to do, you’d’ve joined up with one of our recruiters. Hell, my cofounder was off looking for men for quite some time now. We’re always happy to have an extra set of hands.”

“Not to offend, sir. But we were only looking to talk to you about our joining. See, we’re representing our guild. The Fallen Lions have been fighting for Lycia since Ostia fell, most of us - like Armon here - were soldiers. We want to join you. We’ve got quite a large force. If we band together, we might be able to take the undead head-on!”

Donovan sat, wondering how a bastard, orphan, son of a Bard - went and became the leader of a band of mercenaries. It didn’t seem like it was real. But he didn’t have much of a choice. Kraft had to be stopped. His mother had to be avenged. And In order to get that done, they needed to stop the Lich King. They needed to destroy it before it’s power grew again. The more men they had the better. “Why don’t we all talk in the morning. I feel like there’s a lot to discuss here.”

He nodded and sat, no longer giving them the time of day. A trick he’d learned from his father and mastered after watching Wien do it to him a hundred times. It was a dismissal. And more than that it was a test of hierarchy. One which, he was surprised to find, was respected. The two men left and Don sat by himself once again, watch as Aine finished tuning her harp once again. She plucked out two tentative notes and then began to play, beautiful as the rain slowly sweeping over a hilltop. Elaborate and endless.

It was nearly 3 bars before Donovan realized she was playing Ten Tin Thistles - which could be played on a grass flute - with as much grandeur and grace as if she were playing for a royal court. Her gaze met his and she winked. He felt an overwhelming urge to laugh, and an unstoppable smile took over.

He could not help but think of what Rhiannon had said. To hear his heart as he’d heard his sword…
The tune changed, it became a different song. One of hope and home and loss. An Etruria ballad about a soldier returning from war to find his love had passed giving birth to their daughter. He knew the song better than Aine. After all, he’d heard it ever day. Every night. His whole childhood. She missed a whole verse. As if she’d never known it was there. Or perhaps his mother had made that verse herself.

It was different that he knew, but no less beautiful. It was something else entirely, like a memory on the wind. Like hearing his heart played out before him. He thought of Rhiannon’s advice and his hand drifted to the hilt of his sword. He would listen. He would hear. And he did.

And Fragarach Sang.

[End Thread]