To Shield the World (Warhammer High Elf Mage Quest)

Paths Yet Coming (Non-Canon)

"And Asuryan make me just and righteous, make me see what is to come, and make me a worthy leader. Lileath, guide my dreams and show me mercy to my soul. Hoeth make me wise, let me fall not into the trap of ignorance and despair. Isha make me merciful, kind, compassionate, from the smallest to the greatest of creatures, even those who wrong me. Kurnous make me a steward of nature, not a bane to it. Loec make me cunning, make me joyous, let my song be clear. Ladrielle, let me guide the lost, the erring, the innocent. Vaul, make me willing to sacrifice all for what is right."

The incense burns as you work through your morning prayers, eight incense burners wafting smoke in a heady mix, the strange plant flowing together with the Winds of magic, letting you track it with both your eyes and your sixth sense for once. Sweet music, the interplay of magic, fills the air with a soft and refreshing noise, like morning dew to the ear.

But before you may begin your prayers asking the Cytharai to turn away, something twists.

The Winds of Magic freeze.

No, they don't freeze. Calling it freezing would imply there's something natural to it.

Instead, wills, mighty old wills, wills of Gromril and iron and spite, grasp onto it and try to make it forget that it is magic, the song of wonder, the song of the impossible. They are strong, their wills keen. And they are old, and able beyond ability.

But you are older.

And you are more than able. You were among the First, you were chosen, you were called. And so your will acts as fire, warming the frozen, strangled Winds back to life, a stopped heart starts again. The Ulgu of confusion, the Aqshy of irritation, of course. But the Hysh of comprehension, of understanding.

Of knowledge.

And dedication.

They will not turn aside.

The apartment in this stinking edifice to arrogance the Eonir have called you to led by the Gray Wizard, it seems to shudder and shake as your body guard, White Lions loaned out from the Finubar lad, attempt to interpose themselves between the interlopers and you. Their honor demands it, and you respect that.

Besides, you'll need the time to get properly dressed. Can't greet company in these rags, now can you?

The Ithilmar of your armor slides into place, an old set but sufficient; and for nostalgia's sake, Deathclaw as well. A hickory stick you've been whittling and staining will make a sufficient staff for the moment. And then the White Lion Cloak, after you finally hunted the beast and worked its pelt into something worthy of your time, thrown over your shoulder, aesthetically the only work you've done is to keep it pristine with the help of enchantments, enough to turn aside a cannon ball.

And so ready, you manage to open the door and to your lack of surprise see, yes, one of the other members of the WEBER Project waiting for you. Thorek Ironbrow, Runelord of Karak Azul, one of the reconquerors of Karak Eight Peaks, a friend to the leader of this place. He has not hidden his distaste for you, but then you have hardly laced yours in shadow.

That, after all, is not the way of a lion.

He looks rather like somebody has force fed him the sourest lemon anyone has ever eaten, one specifically bred to cause him pain. That is not unusual, the stunted one seethes that he can't kill you for fun as his ancestors would have liked him to no doubt.

You are more surprised to see the other. A dwarf, to judge by the gnarled, wretched again that strikes him appreciably aged, only perhaps a century or two younger than you rather than the mere children the murderers usually try and toss your way. Old, so very old, withered and gnarled like a cliff eroded under the unbreaking will of the seas. If Thorek looks like he's had to eat the sourest lemon the planet has ever produced, then this one is nearly unreadable. The distaste on his face as he looks at everything, the brute desire to murder everyone around him, you see it written in his eyes.

The forest is a wonder, and he would burn it down.

They merely glare at the White Lions, who in turn glare back, their axes drawn, barring the way.

Blasted--"Haclad. Dare I ask--"

"Elgi." The older speaks in a tone like breaking rock and shattering stone and split mountains, it's quite an impressive effect for one so aged and rotten really. He grabs a tome from his pack, and cracks it open. "Inscribed 3019 AP, A Grudge to be leveled against the Blackfang Dumelgi of Ghrond and of Karond Kar for the murder of the Runelord Alric Kazadsson. Avenged 4519 AP with the death of the High Sorceress Ylane at the edge of High King Gotri. Among the treasures taken were spellbooks, ideally to be used in the Master Rune of Balance. However, as included among them is the secret of working The Beast Metal, ensure it is studied first."

"Congratulations, you killed an old cousin." Your words are a ploy, a distraction, for you know a threat when you hear it. Your hands reach for Deathclaw, not to kill but to distract even as you make sure the Winds are ready. "I've seen the deed done plenty of times, don't you doubt that." To be cast out for killing these--

The surly old Dwarf opens his pack and pulls out a book bound in Manticore leather, thrumming with power, pure Ghur. The Old Sigil of Blackfang is embossed in back jewels and gold, not altogether different from Thinat's journal--a journal you have still been slowly piecing together.

"AP 5180. Miracle. Contact is reestablished with Norscan Dwarfs, thought dead for millennia. They claim an Elgi mageling cleared the path for them, allowing them to make the journey home and reestablish contact." He grabs the book and tosses it, even as by your instinct you snatch it out of the air. "Every Grudge is remembered. Every slight recorded. Every wrong written in a High King's blood." He sighs, exhaling, old and tired. "Every debt is remembered. Every right deed. Every gift given to us, just as surely." He turns aside on his heel and starts marching away, this sour old dwarf who thinks he can murder the magic before you. "Enjoy reading your family's ramblings, Elgi, for whatever their evil is worth."

Opening it, it is as he says.