Chapter one: Betrayal, or is it?



Two subtle mysteries have surfaced in Vesper in the last two weeks. The first being exactly what happened to the mangled body of Rand Darkmoore. Last seen, he had been more or less taken apart by the orcish tribe; both eyes, ears, and tongue missing, along with some internal organs and his right leg. His body was dumped outside of the Swaggers to serve as a ‘warning’ to all those who would dare offend the greenskined horde. After his body was removed from the scene by the Vesparian parks’ department, it was not seen since, and no official funeral or burial had taken place. Such is the life of a soldier; Death comes to even the higher ranks, and remorse for those who have perished in the name of their faction was not common practice. Now, the second mystery was exactly what Draxen Davion had been building in Windmere. Hanse, the militia Captain and Draxen’s uncle had commissioned Draxen with ten million gold pieces to build fortifications in the North. From the outside, Draxens’ villa looks cozy enough. Plaster walls, a thatch roof, and a tall lookout in the rear. It’s only oddity was a rather…stout foundation. About eleven feet tall, in fact. Though the ‘house’ looked pristine enough, no citizens had ever seen Draxen, or anyone for that matter, in or around it after it’s completion. Rest assured, these mysteries intertwine.

“I have two tasks for you, Liberator.” The solemn voice spoke. Samsca of Olk had his back towards Draxen, his long, copper cape shrouding the elf’s form. The Axeman stood at attention behind.
“There’ve been a growing number of reports of orcs rampaging the countryside. The contingents they send here are but a fraction of their numbers; Take a detail of men to their fort and put down a sufficient number of them. The attacks must stop.”
The Liberator nodded, in spite of Olk not looking at him.
“At once, my liege. And the second task?”
The Baron murmured, as if annoyed.
“You’re aware of Rand’s death.”
Draxen paused. “I am.”
“Then you also know I’m out one bodyguard. Find me someone suitable.”
Draxen’s face curled, and nodded again. Without a word, he left Olk’s presence.


Two days’ time saw Draxen and a handful of soldiers standing over the charred remains of an orc fort in the Northern end of Windmere. Burnt bodies of orc men, women, and children lay strewn about the landscape. It was a step in the right direction, but not even a dent. Taking off his helmet to reveal a sooted face, Draxen stared at what seemed to be at least fifty, or maybe even a hundred other forts, lined up like an inverted triangle, many miles away. “Save the wargames for another day.” Draxen thought. Before he could give the order to ‘pack it in’ and send his troops home, he heard the all-too-familiar death knell of a Vesparian. He was used to death by now, and the sound alone didn’t phase him. But by the time Draxen had fully turned around, after a year and a half of military service, finally saw something that shocked him. On the ground lay two halves, separated at the waist, of a partisan. A few feet beyond that was what can only be described as a hulking fusion of metal and black magic. A Golem. Draxen’s lungs filled with air..

“BRING IT DOWN!!”
The remaining men donned recently-sheathed weaponry and charged at the mechanical monstrosity. It’s claws were already stained with blood, as the still-alive rookie lay on the floor in two, screaming his last breaths away. The Golem smacked away oncoming soldiers like ragdolls, sending them scores of feet back into walls or forest wood. Draxen approached carefully and attempted to engage the beast. He parried a claw-swipe with his axe, and managed to move in, severing some wires of the beasts’ legs as it became distracted with other soldiers. A swift kick to the Liberator’s midsection sent him flying into a tree, dazing him. Looking up with crossed eyes, it seemed as if this monster was too great for even Draxens’ troop. Fortunately for the Militia, versatility is their forte`. From behind the beast swung the nimble Frelthiir, climbing up the golem’s back and over it’s arms, standing on its shoulders. Before the metal tyrant could rid himself of this pest, Frelthiir unloaded three crossbow bolts into the Golem’s head, and down it came, with a thunderous crash. Draxen’s vision blurred again, and he passed out.


It was night now, and Draxen awoke with a start, loosing his balance. He found himself on a ship, with five other stone-faced soldiers. The Axeman blinked his eyes, and held his throbbing head.
“How’d we do?” He spoke at last.
“We lost three, including the two partisans.” A soldier answered.
Draxen made a quick head-count.
“And Bruce?”
“He’s on his own ship. We managed to dissect that…thing and haul it aboard his flagship. Your uncle sent word via pigeon to bring it home for research.”
Draxen was too weak to argue. He nodded and prepared for the voyage home.


The ships both docked next to each other on the shores of Windmere, only a few hundred yards from Draxens’ outpost.
“Haul it up the steps. I’ll show you where.”
“But sir..” A Firebrand began. “We’re supposed to—“
“Just do it.”
Obediently, the underlings began unloading Golem parts from Bruce’s boat, and up the steps to ‘Castle Axengard’, outside of two large doors. Draxen carried the head of the golem, which despite three bolt-holes to the forehead, was in relatively decent condition. Draxen de-briefed the soldiers, and sent them back to south Vesper for ale and sleep. Groaning, he eyed the task ahead of him; moving a Golem.


It was almost morning. Draxen sat in an elven chair, bags under his eyes, and his temples bandaged. By the looks of it, he had seen better days. It appeared as if he was in a dungeon. Thick stone walls lined the enclosure, with several large stone stables arranged in neat order. At the far wall was a large cylindrical container, covered by an old sheet. A pale green light filtered through, and tubes ran from either side of the container into the wall. The sound of bubbling water could be heard. Standing with a grunt, Draxen moved to the other side of the long corridor, to stand in front of the cylinder. His hand moved slowly to grab the sheet and pull it back some, revealing a stronger green light. The container was filled with a strange liquid. Shaking his head, the Axemen let the sheet go, and it came to cover the container again. Looking wearily to the table, he tossed a few books and papers aside to reveal what looked like an essay, titled:

“Professor of Bio-stimulation science and technology: Marshall Drakan”

The Void.

Somewhere between life and death there Rand Darkmoore lay in a liquid filled tube. He did not know whether he was alive or dead, and if he was dead, he knew that the afterlife really was not all it was cracked up to be. He could feel very little save for some kind of restraints upon his body making him unable to move. He thought that he could feel bubbles of sorts all around him and some piece of equipment on his face. He occasionally thought he could hear muffled voices nearby but they soon faded everytime.

"This must be the Abyss," he thought bitterly and drifted back into a state of nothingness.

Chapter two: So dark the Con of Man

Draxen sat in a wicker chair in what seemed to be a relatively small warehouse. A shadow cast over most of his body, and half of his face. He faced a small door, from which footsteps could be heard approaching. Rubbing his chin, he silently considered his latest actions. If anyone ‘important’ had found out what his latest orders had been, it could mean dire consequences. The door shot open and three figures entered. Two Vesparian soldiers on either side of a short, very thin man, dressed in peasant attire, with a black bag over his face. His hands were bound behind his back, and he was struggling immensely.

“Sir.” It was a familiar voice, but a mempo hid his face.
“This is the one you wanted.”
Draxen gave a dismissive gesture of the hand. The two guards released the bound man and stood outside, closing the door. Draxen placed a lantern on the table next to him, illuminating the small house. Standing, he broke the mans rope-seized hands with a small hunting knife, and removed the hood. It seemed this man was of middle-age, his light beard and sparse hair beginning to grey. He wore glasses, and around his neck he wore what seemed to be an extremely expensive pendant, not fitting for the mans attire. A look of sheer terror crossed his face.

“Doctor Marshall, I presume.”
“Wh-Who…A—“ the man stuttered.
“I am Draxen Davion of the Vesparian Militia. I’ve come here to enlist your help.”
It appeared as if the mans countenance turned to one of anger instead of fear as he stood and brushed himself off.
“You’ve come to MY home, MY Shores of N’ujelm! You have your…thugs kidnap me! Vesper…pah!” The man grumbled and continued. Draxen showed no signs of worry or care, and did not speak. Seeing this, the scientist let up.
“..I have office hours, you know.”


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It was light out now, though it wouldn’t make any difference. The two were in the basement of Davions’ ‘home’. Marshall sat at one end of the huge stone table, polishing his glasses. Draxen stood way at the far end, next to the cylindrical tube veiled with a black sheet.
“Doctor, the reason I’ve asked you to—“
“You didn’t ask me anything. You kidnapped me.” Marshall snapped.
“Mmh…the reason I brought you here is because in the known Sosarian world, you are the only man with any reasonable knowledge in the field of Biology and the study of, well, existence. I’ve read your essays, they’re quite good. You’re the man they say can play god. You brought an eight-year-old boy back to life after he had been dead for three days.”
The Doctors face cringed and he looked away. After a pause, he spoke with a guttural tone to his voice.
“I couldn’t save him, though. He died again a week later. He didn’t eat, he didn’t sleep...throughout that week he constantly complained of headaches and pain in all of his muscles.” The doctor squinted his eyes as if looking through the table itself.
“ It was…temporary. All I managed to do was prolong his suffering, and postpone death for just a few days…I watched him die over the course of a week.”

Draxen kept his focus on the doctor, but seemed largely uninterested with the story. He spoke after what he thought an adequate pause.

“If anyone can do this, it would be you. I need you to try harder.”
The doctor looked up, as if confused.
“Mmh…fine, then. “ Draxen turned and faced the tube. Inhaling momentarily, he took hold of the sheet, and pulled it clean off. What the doctor saw next made even a man whose profession was getting bled upon widen his eyes. In the tube, about eight feet tall, floated the ‘living corpse’ of Rand Darkmoore in a pale green liquid. His body was scarred beyond recognition, with large chunks of flesh and bone missing, some still decaying and floating in the water beside him. One leg was gone, and an ‘aura’ of blood seemed to perpetually float around his mangled face. Tubes ran from his wrists into a mechanism beneath the tube, and a mask covered what used to be Rand’s eyeless, tongueless, earless face, connected to what seemed to be a breathing tube at the top of the chamber.

“Is that what I..think it is? How did you…is he..” The doctor seemed notorious for stuttering and rambling.
“ He’s alive as far as I know. He’s been in embalming fluid for the better part of two weeks now. The equipment, well. That I borrowed from friends.”

Draxen looked up, and recalled, as if in a flashback, of how he brutally slaughtered a roomful of Gargoyle ‘scientists’ in their own, once-populated city in the Illishenar desert, and making off with some of their ‘supplies’. For all he knew, their bodies were still decaying there..

“I need you to rebuild him, doctor. He’s valuable to the militia.”

“Rebuild him? You..must be joking! It’s a wonder he’s still alive..if you can CALL that ‘alive!’ Theres nothing I can do..”

“But there is, doctor.I read quite extensively on that boy you brought back from the dead...Markus. Attacked by ratmen, that was the story eh?”

The doctors face contorted as Draxen went on.

“You gave him a golem heart and eye, which your reports say he saw out of. I want you to do the same thing, Doctor Marshall Drakan---“

Draxen walked to the corner of the cellar and opened a rather large container. Reaching inside, he hefted out what was undeniably the arm and hand of a golem, complete with mechanical claw and all.”

“---But with these!”

Excrutiating pain was the only sensation Rand had been feeling lately. He was not sure for how long it had been going on. He no longer felt surrounded by liquid and in between slipping in and out of conciousness all he felt were constant stabs of pain in his thigh..or what he thought was his thigh. He tried to scream but little came out, or he could not hear them atleast. He thought that he could hear muffled voices and shouting going on pretty much constantly.

"For fecks sake!!!" he thought he heard quite often.

Earlier the pains had come mainly from his hand but not lately. He knew that he was alive now, but not what was happening to him. He briefly entertained the thought that the Orcs that maimed him were still having their fun with him, and prayed for death but it never came.

A jab of electical energy pulsed through his entire body and he spasmed violently and he felt the restraints on his body now. He was tied down on some metallic table.

"Oh...well...I err...think...that did the trick..." he heard as the person speaking was near to where Rand was, looming over his head.
Rand slipped slowly into a state of oblivion again.