Distant tales of the Dichotomy

Location: Under-city of the Citadel

Year: 127 A.G.F.

Deep within the Shallow Gallows lay a small yet well-renowned tavern and inn named the Willow’s Drip. The establishment had existed for as long as the Shallows themselves. Beneath the roof of this old but not forgotten barrack lived a young lad named Felanor TeneDente, first of his name and an orphan since birth. His mother, Jema of TeneDente, had died giving birth to him, and he knew even less about his father than about his late mother. He had been taken in by a maiden named Historia Lunasterie, a sharp-tongued woman with the wits of a fox, perhaps not as conniving but most definitely as playful as one. Her beauty rivaled that of the ancient goddesses themselves, though she never acted like it. She wore long, flowing, dirty grey hair like that of an old woman in her final days. Her figure was tall and lanky, towering over most at a whopping 6’3”. Even at such heights she was anything but a warrior. She was a caring and gentle creature, often willing to help those in need, even if it most often ended in reprimands from the Gallows Guardsmen.

Twelve years before the present, she had found a scrawny boy who had been exiled from the royal keep. The new Patriarch of the high seat had just been crowned, and since this Patriarch was a Wyrnia (a vile and petty one at that), he decreed that every adult male TeneDente be put to death, and that the children and women of the family be exiled from the Citadel of Vows and the surrounding areas. Most fled into the under-city, but some were less fortunate and had to cross the painful sands of the Mayfeld before reaching another kingdom that would give them shelter.

When she stumbled upon the boy, she knew exactly who he was, or rather who he could be. The dark reddish hair and the patchy round scar on his left hand did not lie. Even knowing the earful she would get from Orcus, she took the boy, cradling him in her slim, tender arms and wrapping them around him like an arch curving over a Raskian doorway, and quickly brought him to the tavern without hesitation. Her good nature forbade her from abandoning a three-year-old infant, even one from a grievous lineage.

As she had feared, the moment she stepped into the Drip, a stern look was fired at her from across the inn. Behind the counter stood a figure even bigger than the one holding Felanor. The behemoth of a man opened his mouth to speak, but the swift Historia was quick to retreat to her chambers. Knowing the man still had much to take care of before he could leave his post, the only way he could protest was to roll his eyes and plot his scolding.

The gargantuan fellow she had just avoided was none other than Orcus, the Blue Fist of the Southwest, a Raskian and direct descendant of the titan of Rask. Although he had never cared for his ancestry, he had fought in many tourneys in his youth. On one such occasion, while he rode a snowy bison into the lists, he took a hit straight to his strained chest plate and collapsed instantly. Falling unconscious, he slid off his steed and met an unforgiving ground that stole the use of his lower left leg, which was then replaced by a fine ivory-and-oak prosthetic, probably weighing more than the average Arboritian man.

Since then he had become a renowned smith who forged high-quality arms and armor for the Royal Remnants army during the revolt of Hegart, lord of Sand-Pass and keeper of Stormshield, a TeneDente who rose to take the throne after a hundred years of Wyrnia rulers governing the entirety of the Dichotomy while simultaneously serving the Ortumocorvis Emperor. He was then named High Smith of the Two Tables, but that soon ended when the kingslayer was slain himself by the younger brother of the previous king, Jahad Wyrnia, “the Vengeful Arch-king,” current holder of the high seat of the Dichotomy. Orcus was no fool. He left the Citadel long before the Revolt of Reds took place and took up the family legacy of keeping the Willow’s Drip alive, replacing his aging older brother, who then moved back to his homeland of Rask. Historia had entered his service only a year after he took over the business. She never told the old man where she came from, but he always had his suspicions, having traveled many far regions and seen a good part of the world in his younger years.

A short while later, as Historia was caring for the boy in her chambers, she heard a long, slow thump coming from the doorway. She knew at once that the menacing, growling sound had to come from the old Raskian. Moments later, Orcus opened the door and said:

“Another one of your projects, I gather?”

“Do I have to expect the black helms to bust through the doors any minute now, young miss?” he then added.

Historia answered, sharp as a needle:

“Not as if those doors haven’t been busted through countless times before.”

The big man went to speak, but Historia was a step ahead and followed with:

“Project or not, this poor boy needs a home, and I insist we provide one.”

Orcus grinned menacingly, sending a chill down her spine, and said:

“There is no we, Tori. Your projects, not mine.”

He took a few steps and shouted softly:

“Oh, and the little bastard had better start working his share, or he can get a visit from the Gallows Guardsmen themselves!”

From that day on, Felanor lived and worked as a stable boy at the Willow’s Drip until the age of fifteen, when, in only a couple of fortnights, he would become a man and have his march of manhood. This consisted of marching to one of the great cathedrals of crowns, of which four existed in the realm of Arboritia. Once there had been five, but the Dichotomy’s sacred coven was destroyed in political battles a short while after the Great Fall of the titans. Fel had not yet decided which path to follow, as he had spent much of his life fearing someone might come and take him away to the dark dungeons of Riverstone, where most TeneDentes were either held or executed. Now that he could go anywhere, he was more lost than ever.

You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.

One dark and musty morning in the under-city of Vows, where smog and sewage were more common than sunlight, Fel was walking home with a heavy cloth bag filled with vegetables he had bought at the Round Market of Flies, where anything and everything could be purchased, from wyvern eggs to High-Elvish whores in the brothels of crows. As he entered the back door of the Drip, he heard a distressing rumble from the main floor. He climbed the back stairs in a hurry and found Orcus in a heated argument with a few rogue knights dressed in brown tunics and cloaks of tarnished leather and stringy cotton. He couldn’t quite make out what they were yapping about, but he could tell things were escalating, as the men had their palms on the pommels of their falchions.

He stepped a little closer and was suddenly yanked up and sideways, as if a gust of wind had thrown him into the air. In reality, it was Historia, who had swooped him aside and was now holding her hands over his mouth. She looked at him tenderly and said:

“Listen, Fel, we don’t have much time. To think they’d show up this early! Take this.”

She handed him a black pouch containing a parchment, and then an obsidian, glassy black arming sword with a red ruby on its hilt.

“The sword is named Falling Star, and it shall keep you safe. Someone special wanted you to have it.”

“W-what?” answered Felanor in a quivering voice.

“Just follow the path drawn on the map and run to the high city gates. An old friend of mine should be there to accompany you,” said Historia quickly.

“But… b-but…”

She pulled him into her loving arms and squeezed him tightly, as she had done hundreds of times before, but this time it felt different. Usually Fel would push back in embarrassment, but this time he could only cling to her, not wanting to let go.

Suddenly he heard a big crash near the bar. Fel came running and saw one of the knights broken and shattered amid a pile of cedar-wood shards that had once been a beautiful table. He stood there staring at the man, who was leaking blood from every slit in his armor plate, then looked up and saw Orcus furiously wrestling the remaining knights. One of them glanced in his direction and said something to a man who seemed to be their leader. All five of them stopped their assault on the old giant and burst toward the youngling. Orcus bent down, ripped off the massive wooden counter that made up most of the bar, and hurled it into the path of the knights as he screamed:

“Get out of here, ya twat! This old beast still has what it takes to rumble, but I won’t hold them off for long!”

He laughed deeply and slammed both fists into the ground, making it tremble as plates and glasses fell from the tables around them. The young boy turned and headed for the back door he had come through. Upon descending the stairs and reaching the door, he felt a dark aura behind him and immediately lunged through the wooden door. Seconds later, the entire building lit up in a shadowy purple flame that engulfed everything in its path. Fel let out a scream from deep within his soul and wept as he ran barefoot along the slimy cobblestone roads of the under-city.

Reaching a small alley, he sat against a wall and cried while trying to regain his composure. Fearing he had little time, he opened the parchment to find two maps drawn upon it. One showed the way up and through the Citadel of Vows, and the other showed a path to the great cathedral of crowns of Lunas, otherwise known as the Heavenly Moon of Spirits. He folded it back up and shoved it into the heavy leather bag he still carried on his back, then strapped the sword to his belt. Finally he went to inspect the black satin pouch Historia had given him, but he heard a herd of men gathering near him, and soon shouts followed, and screams began to ring out all around him. He had no choice but to run and follow the map as best he could remember it.

Traversing the under-city was easy for Felanor, since it had been his home for ten years. Upon his arrival at the first gate, he met his first trial, one of bravery rather than strength. A crowd had gathered around the shaky wooden path that connected the under-city to the massive iron gate guarding the entrance to Catacombs Pass, a narrow street leading up into the lower city of the Citadel of Vows. He slithered through several groups, since at only 5’7” and slightly trained muscle, still growing, he was perfectly suited to squeezing between the common folk in line.

He was about to cross the gate, hiding behind a group of aged maidens following a priest of the high seat back to the Citadel after a sermon in the under-city’s minor church, nicknamed the Shackles of the Citadel. (It was the only reason the Citadel had not yet completely buried Catacombs Pass and forgotten the 1.2 million inhabitants of the under-city. The church had forbidden the destruction of its property, and any insult to this rule would mean direct involvement of the Ortumocorvis Empire, which was the last thing the new high seater of the Dichotomy needed.) Then he was startled by a loud voice behind him.

“Hold it, boy! You don’t look like a lord or a lady to me. By the looks of it, I’d say you’re a runaway.”

The man advanced toward the lad, and in that moment Fel realized the voice belonged to a Gallows Guardsman. He was about to break into a sprint when he felt a cold steel hand on his shoulder, pinning him in place like a nail.

“I said hold it, boy. Do you need a quick lesson in manners, involving my fist and a clout on the ear, or can you sit tight for a minute, for Faith’s sake?”

Fel nodded, and the man let go moments later.

“So, where’d ya get that pouch? Thief, aren’t you, lad? Speaking of which, I haven’t seen obsidian glass like that in a few decades.”

The man reached for Falling Star, but the boy, well acquainted with swords from countless lessons with Orcus, was much quicker and drew it first.

“Whoa, whoa there! Easy, soldier.”

He stepped back and said in a serious tone:

“Listen, brat, we can do this the easy way, or I can draw my blade, and I don’t think you’ll be the one to walk away.”

Fel’s knees started shaking slightly, and he chose to lower the guard he had been holding. The man looked pleased and spoke again:

“Atta boy! See, that wasn’t so hard, was it? Now just hand me a few coins from that pouch and I’ll let you off for the day, for the little hero act you pulled earlier.”

Felanor looked confused and lost, so the Guardsman said roughly:

“Are you deaf or stupid, boy?”

The lad quickly took the pouch and reached into it. He pulled out five glims and two shims, and the man gave him a disappointed look.

“All you have here is a few sticks and a pair of daggs? Sigh. Alright, add two more shims and we have a deal.”

Fel reached in again and felt a heavier piece. His curious nature being what it was, he pulled it out. It glistened brightly as he drew it, and the guard quickly snatched it, while Fel dropped the other coins he was holding. The man started to walk away with a smile, muttering proudly:

“To think the brat was hiding a Sun on him! The bloody bastard had some guts, pulling glims out on me. I should’ve cut off his fingers for pointing that black dread of a sword at me.”

The boy quickly gathered the fallen coins, which had scattered across the gate pass. He found only three of the five glims, but at least the two shims were intact. He got back on his feet and continued his journey out of the dirty city where he had spent most of his life, and up toward a city that was still dirty but perhaps had more breathable air.