koleir

• #worldbuilding
• #dremeria
• #writing

Leaning against the rough, damp stone of the corridor, Naher struggled to catch their breath. Their ragged panting had yet to calm, while the creature before them drew its last. The fight had been brief, but incredibly violent, and their limbs still bore its bloody marks. They tightened their grip on the khépesh and, with some effort, stood up to rejoin their siblings in the main hall, leaving behind the mutilated, blood-soaked corpse of the humanoid beast that had confronted them moments earlier.

Earlier that morning, the alarm horns had echoed throughout the fortress, and they had leapt up to rush to their assigned post. Weeks before, a horde of dreunders had landed near the Iseret woods, on the western edge of Mlaar. Day after day, they had infiltrated the land, slaughtering every varyliar they came across. Despite the varyliars' resistance, the dreunders had eventually drawn close to the stronghold — the last bastion before access to the Source, the most sacred place for all varyliars.

Where refinement, excellence, and subtlety defined each of the semi-magical varyliars, dreunders were infused with brutality, crudeness, and simplicity from birth. These semi-primitive beings — at least from the varyliars' point of view — were no less formidable. Their extraordinary strength, unyielding constitution, and natural resistance to the magic of the Nine Moons made them deadly foes. And in numbers, they overwhelmed: when one fell on the front line, five more, thirsting for blood and destruction, would immediately take its place. Opposite them, the varyliars fell one by one, slowly, like the last drops from a punctured waterskin drying out inexorably.

Naher had run into one while trying to reach the walkway of the second wall. They hadn't thought the enemy had already penetrated so deep into the building, which meant only a few meters separated them from what clearly was their target: the Source itself, from which the varyliars drew their very essence. They turned back, their conscience pushing them to retrace their steps.

They entered the great hall via a small mezzanine lined with a balustrade, its gilding glinting under the flickering flames of the lanterns suspended from the imposing chandeliers overhead. The white stone and pale marble reflected the light in every direction, bathing the entire room in a soft yet steady glow. And yet, the grandeur of the place felt far less comforting than usual. Looking down, they noticed the lifeless bodies of several of their kind strewn across the once-immaculate floor. Horror, which they had tried to resist, quickly gripped them, paralyzing every limb and causing spasms in their chest. Around thirty lay there, motionless,

their mutilated bodies soaked in blood and viscera, their faces twisted by terror or pain. Several dreunders also lay dead, some bearing marks only the weapons of their own kin could have inflicted.

A cold hand landed on their arm and they spun around with a cry of terror, blade at the ready. They quickly recognized the familiar face of Nisena, a young mage from House Saqqar, who gently urged them to lower their weapon. They obeyed, then burst into tears. Though their houses had often opposed each other in the past, today they stood united against a common threat. The mage pulled Naher out of sight and spoke in a whisper:

— The devils got through, they said. A small group of us is heading to the Grand Basin to hold them off until reinforcements arrive. Come with us!

— They… there are too many of them… Naher replied, voice trembling.

— Maybe so. But we must do all we can to protect the Source, said Nisena, their tone firm and absolute.

— I'll follow you, said Naher, trying to gather themself.

The two allies joined the motley group Nisena had mentioned — warriors, mages, and many civilians armed with whatever they could find, or with weapons retrieved from the fallen. At their head stood a commander of the White Guard, clad in intricately sculpted silver armor, coordinating the troops and laying out a hastily-formed plan. They were more imposing than most varyliars present, and though their helm concealed most of their face, Naher could sense the anxiety and resignation in the soldier's demeanor.

The group moved out after a few minutes and quickly reached the antechamber leading to the Grand Basins. By approaching from the upper floor, they hoped to catch their enemies off guard — or at least that was their hope. The metallic tang of blood grew stronger with every step toward the place they all believed might be their grave. The sounds of battle grew louder, reverberating off the thick stone walls, crashing into their eardrums. Screams of rage and cries of pain battered their spirits and sapped their will even before they reached the balconies where they had planned to strike.

The warriors would plunge into the fray while the mages stayed above, covering their allies and staying out of reach of the dreunders' brute strength. That had been the plan — and so it was done.

Naher had rarely seen the Source since their Renaissance. They still remembered the place, but barely recognized it as they leapt from the balcony onto one of the stone bridges spanning the Grand Basins. The dreunders had already breached the main gate and clashed with the guards. The commander's plan had worked: they had gotten ahead of their enemies. Naher readied their bow and took position, loosing arrow after arrow at the crimson-skinned barbarians. From above, the mages cast spells, drawing power from the Source — so close — and from the shards of moonstone adorning their accessories. Lightning and fire tore through the air, charring the dreunders where they stood, leaving only darkened smears on the alabaster floor.

Suddenly, a side door burst open, unleashing a frenzied horde that overwhelmed the defenders, caught off guard. Naher turned, loosed a few deadly arrows, then holstered their bow and drew their khépesh and a curved dagger, ready for close combat. Their position gave them an edge: the bridge was narrow, preventing the enemies from fully exploiting their superior numbers. Outside the hall, the deep horns of the reinforcements finally sounded in the distance, bringing a sliver of hope to the children of Dirn who still held the line. They fought with renewed vigor, repelling wave after wave of Krenne's spawn. Those attacking Naher hesitated briefly, until one of them locked eyes with the varyliar, his gaze ablaze with fury. He raised his twin jagged axes to the ceiling and charged, mouth foaming with bile and venom.

The clash of blades echoed through the hall, and the impact forced Naher back several meters. They parried strike after strike, slashing the beast's thick hide while nimbly dodging the slower but powerful blows. But fatigue set in, and after several long seconds, they made a mistake. The monster sank its axe into their thigh. Staggered by the blow's force, they faltered. As the dreunder prepared to deliver a likely fatal strike, Naher plunged the curved blade of their khépesh into the creature's side and pulled it close, unbalancing it.

Both of them toppled into the shimmering basin to which Naher had always been destined, under the horrified gaze of the sanctuary's last defenders. As their body met the iridescent waters, Naher caught one final glimpse of the great door, from which the rest of the White Guard was emerging.