Irrandor Castle: within the young lord’s chambers
As if waking after a century of sealed slumber, Lurian’s eyes creaked open, letting out a weak groan as felt yesterday’s toll.
He was cold.
He was tired.
He was hungry.
‘I should have taken a draught,’ he thought, his glare all but burning a hole in the ceiling. ‘At least then I wouldn’t feel like such a grump.’ As always, sleep without the aid of draughts was restless, broken up by shooting pains and twisted dreams.
As he lay there, wallowing in all his misery, he drew comfort from the knowledge that he would be spared the morning’s usual physical conditioning.
Still glaring, he looked over at the timekeeper atop his dresser. It was a curious, spiteful device; no bigger than his fist. Each morning—its loud, obnoxious rattle—tempted him to take it apart, just to see what made it tick. But alas—he hadn’t the time; he had but a quarter-glass before the on-duty maid came barging in, seeing him bathed and changed for the coming day.
Reaching out, he slapped the top of the device, silencing its damn rattle, before flopping back into his bed. ‘It’ll be Lora’lie or Margaret. There is no way Claire will see me just yet. That is, unless I apologize for—whatever that was,’ he thought, remembering Claire’s odd behavior.
He sighed, then a humorous thought struck him: ‘She may come running if the alternative is leaving me alone with Lora’lie. Especially since I so badly require a bath,’ he mused, letting out a pained chuckle when he imagined his cute little maid rushing to guard his virtue.
Striving to at least look presentable, Lurian struggled from his bed and ungracefully sagged into his wheelchair. He near cursed at the thought that it would be days before he was fully mobile and free of the damn thing.
“Ah, the struggles of the unawakened,” he grumbled, once more tempted to rip the Sleeper’s medallion from his neck. However, such thoughts soon faded as he settled into the long, boring wait...
After what felt like hours staring at the unopened door, Lurian finally saw movement, as an aged, busty human—with forearms as thick as any blacksmith’s—shuffled in. Despite his inner misery, Lurian still managed an amicable smile when offering his greeting.
“Good morning, Margaret.”
She looked him up and down, her eyes revealing nothing of her thoughts as she maintained her cheery smile. “Oh, ya up, young lord. After the day ya had yesterday, I expected you to be still dreamin’ with the Sleeper.”
“Not at all, Margaret. I’m afraid Sor’et-tarr denied me my stay in Nel’harna.”
“Ah, that’s too bad; well, you’re all mine this fine mornin’,” she said, grabbing the dirty sheets from his bed. “Hmm, from the looks of this, you’ll be needing a bath first thing this morning.” Tucking the rolled sheets under her arm, she walked behind him, pushing him forward. “Come now, we’ll get you to the baths.”
With the incessant ‘click’ of a single, worn wooden wheel, Margaret pushed him out and into the sparse corridors of the keep; the scattered light highlighting the discolored mortar and the many cracks in the moss-covered stone.
Almost at the baths, the maid couldn’t help but inquire: “If ya don’t mind me prying, what did ya do to that lass—Claire? She’s been in a right mood from the moment her head left the pillow, and—by my reckonin’, you be the only one able to do that ta-the girl.”
Lurian winced, choosing silence, as he did not wish to converse on such personal matters—fearing they become gossip by evening.
“...Oh, all right, keep your secrets,” she chuckled. “We’re here anyway,” she said, pushing him into the large bathing room.
A colossal copper tub dominated the center of the otherwise unremarkable room. It sat there, a true industrial marvel, combining both magic and a craftsman’s ingenuity. Behind it, an intricate array of hissing valves and hot pipes served to regulate the water’s heat and flow, while a large tank at the back acted as both heater and reservoir for the water pumped up from the castle’s basement.
Apparently the height of opulence at the time, the old human lord had insisted that there be a bath on every floor. It was a vanity that had become one of the few luxuries available to the ‘lucky few’ who called this castle home.
Lurian found its soothing heat the perfect remedy for his aching muscles after a long day spent training in the yard. He often wondered what other marvels of engineering the tinkers might have built had his people—fleeing the Tide—not descended upon these lands.
It was an act that not only robbed them of their sovereignty, but also stifled all hopes at further innovation.
He sighed, thinking it truly a shame that such brilliance must now suffocate under the reluctant stagnancy of a long-lived race, one well known for its aversion to all things change.
Noticing steam escaping the tank, he curiously glanced the maid’s way. “The water's already hot?”
Margaret, busy readying the bath, shot him a knowing smile. “Aye, that lass—despite her mood—saw to it that the water be hot for when you wake.”
“I see,” he said, sinking into thought. ‘Perhaps she’s not as cross as I imagined, but then why is it Margaret and not her seeing to my needs this morning?’ he wondered. You are reading on novelping . com, the official source.
Done prepping the bath, Margaret rose. "Will ya be needing a hand getting out of your clothes and into the bath?" she asked, her voice snapping him back to the present.
"No, I should be fine. I’m sure I’ll somehow manage."
"As mi’lord wishes," Margaret said, placing a fresh linen gown on a nearby stool. "I’ll leave this here, and I’ll be just outside, if ya be needin’ anythin’—just holla."
"Will do. Oh, and Margaret," Lurian called out before she could leave.
"Yes mi’lord?"
"Can you see to my morning meal? Something hearty; I’m afraid I went without last night, and am quite famished."
"Of course, mi’lord, I’ll get right on it. You just relax, and I’ll see about gettin’ the cooks ta-make a nice hearty spread for ya."
“Thanks, Margaret,” he said, gripping the edge of his chair as he stared into the steaming water.
'The real trick will be getting back out,’ he thought, bracing himself for the coming challenge...
. . . . .
It took a full glass for Lurian to get himself washed and dressed in the provided gown. To his shame, he wasn’t up to the challenge of getting out of the bath himself, inevitably needing to call the burly maid in for assistance.
After having a good cackle at his expense, she soon had him dried—dressed—and back in his wheelchair. And with a heavy blanket wrapped round his frame, they made their way towards the lift.
“I’ve spoken with the kitchen and asked them to put somethin’ together for ya. Said it’d be delivered to the dining hall by the barracks. Should be waitin’ for ya when we get there,” explained Margaret as she squeezed them both into the old servant’s lift.
He was surprised by the ease with which she powered the device. Despite being years older than Claire, the woman didn’t look the least bit drained by what should have been a rather taxing task. While he pondered why such a difference existed between the two’s reserves, the lift came to a stop on the keep’s ground floor.
Margaret, misunderstanding his silence, spoke up, “Don’t worry, young master. I’ve been with you for years; I’ve seen it all before; no need to feel embarrassed.”
At first, Lurian was confused, but then he realized her meaning and sighed, “It’s not that, Margaret; the little modesty I had left was beaten out of me years back. I am merely wondering what I am to do. Normally the lord would have me with my tutors, studying the mundane arts while I recovered, but I have very little left to learn, and as far as I am aware, my latest tutor moved on a few weeks back, leaving me with nothing to do.”
“Aye—that be true. Well, there’s still old Can'tarrous’s magic lessons in the evenin’s. With ya soon departin’ for the tower, I imagine he will want to refresh ya memories on all his teachin’s; especially those ta do with the magics of the tower.”
“True, but what am I to do till then? I can hardly practice my sword forms in the state I’m in, and it’s hardly worth my time to practice any magics while still unawakened.”
Feebly, he clenched his fists. “It would just slow my recovery anyway...”
He hated it; the weakness; the way the words sounded on his lips. It was as if he was whining at the world; he thought it unbecoming to appear so vulnerable before another, for such weakness was beneath him.
Margaret’s chuck broke him from his brooding. “Perhaps it is time his lordship develops a hobby. If I remember correctly, when ya were but a youngin’, ya did love to read. Always sneaking off to look through the previous lord's collection. Maybe a visit to the old library would save ya from a day’s boredom.”
He nodded. “I just might do that. Though, I doubt the lord would appreciate me wasting a day I could spend on other pursuits—given my coming departure.”
She chuckled. “Honestly, I don’t think he’d mind. If the lord’s got nothin’ planned, then it’s a rare day off, isn’t it. Best ya enjoy it, don’t-cha think?” she advised, pushing his chair over the threshold and into the dining hall.
The hall was a cavernous space of dark, soot-stained stone and burnt oak that swallowed the scant light that managed to breach the semi-opaque windows lining the chamber’s back wall. Lurian took a deep breath, savoring the pleasant warmth of a hearth and the lingering scent of freshly baked bread that greeted his entry.
Lurian’s sharp ears caught Torvous’s shouts and the rhythmic thwack of wooden practice swords that echoed in from the upper bailey. ‘Training the new recruits?’ he guessed, after noting the zeal present in the arms-master’s shouts.
He sent a simple prayer to the Twelve Faiths on their behalf, and—after a complaint from his stomach—he refocused on the meal to come. “Here mi’lord, quite the feast, no?” Margaret said, wheeling him to one of the long tables.
As promised, a modest but hearty breakfast was laid out before him, featuring a small freshly smoked trout, a few slices of cheese, and a crusty chunk of salted hearth-bread, paired tastefully with a side of mushroom stew. He nodded and took a cautious sample of the fish, then a sip of stew, and to his relief, there was no wave of nausea—forcing him to forgo the meal.
With a vigor that surprised even him, he instantly felt the life begin to return to his weary pallor as he made quick work of the modest feast.
Satiated and unwilling to remain in the emptiness of the dining hall, he wondered what to do. That was when he heard it: a colorful string of insults had suddenly replaced the relentless barking that was Torvous’s usual instruction. Curious, he asked Margaret to take him for a walk through the bailey.
With a smile and a nod, Margaret complied swiftly, wheeling him out of the Hall. They emerged into the upper bailey, a sprawling courtyard of packed dirt and loose shale, nestled between the dull, imposing gray of the castle’s walls. Once in sight of the ragged guards, Lurian raised a hand, signaling Margaret to stop their approach.
“Is that all you maggots can manage?! I said run until you drop!” roared an irate Torvous, standing at the heart of the dusty arena.
Around him ran ten ragged elves; their chests heaving, their tunics stained with sweat and the fine gray dust of the bailey. Lurian watched their movements grow clumsy as they neared collapse, but they held on, their eyes hot with the embers of a familiar fire. You are reading on novelping(.)com, the official source.
‘Yep, definitely new guardsmen; they are always a little rough... but, I suppose there’s potential there. They may become quite formidable after some training,’ he thought, used to such a scene.
The ten young ven struggled through two more laps; Torvous finally called a stop to their ragged procession. Almost instantly, the elven recruits scattered haphazardly across the dirt. None of the ten stood straight; some leaned on their knees, while others lay in the dirt—their chests heaving in desperate, ragged gasps.
“You lot have barely begun to work up a sweat, and ya’re already calling it quits. I thought you elves prided yourselves on being superior to us lowly humans,” he huffed, “but let me tell ya here-and-now, you lot—ya lack the grit to be soldiers.”
Torvous smirked and continued: “I’d be better off training a group of human maidens—than you lot! At least the maidens would give me something ta look at. And ya know what, they’d probably make better guardsmen.”
“Why—you filthy human!” one of the young elves hissed, not taking kindly to the comparison, lashing out at the man with a poorly executed punch.
Lurian winced, knowing exactly what would happen next.
As if rehearsed, Torvous simply caught the man’s outstretched wrist, then twisted as he pulled, leaving the elf off balance. Unable to adjust, the youth scrambled, and Torvous, with practiced ease, extended a foot—tripping him and leaving him sprawled in the dirt.
Torvous, not known to be graceful in victory, raised his foot and placed it on the man’s side, pushing him all the way to the ground, where it rested, ensuring that the downed ven could not rise.
“What was that, guardsman Fea’ralay? Was that ungainly display meant to be an attack? An attack on a superior no less?” he questioned, viciously smirking down at the ‘ven resting beneath his boot.
The embarrassed, winded guardsmen didn’t speak, clearly aware that if he were to do so—it would only make matters worse.
Torvous, not expecting an answer, continued, “If so, I’ll have-ta have ya work this evening in the kitchens. You’ll be scrubbing pots and pans with the real workers. At least then, ya can earn what the lord’s feeding you, cuz right now, you're nothin’ more than a waste of bread!”
Torvous kicked the downed man, then looked up and sneered at the surrounding recruits. “Get back to work; the lord doesn’t need any more lazy bums in his garrison, so you lot better get your shit together, or you’ll join him in the kitchens!”
Lurian rolled his eyes. It was clear to him that Torvous was deliberately stirring them up, just so he could have the satisfaction of beating the arrogance out of a bunch of cocky young ven.
Shaking his head, he let out a sigh. He imagined it would be somewhat cathartic to see others suffer in the same manner as he had for so long. But sitting here, seeing these grown elves only now experiencing training on the same level expected of him when he was but twelve, only left him feeling resentful at the cards he’d been dealt.
Melancholic, Lurian looked up at the darkening sky. “It would seem the sky seeks to mirror my mood,” he muttered.
“What was that—mi’lord?”
He sighed. “Nothing, Margaret. I’m just being needlessly dramatic... Let’s go, else we’ll get caught in the rain.”
“Oh, where to, mi’lord?” she asked, sounding intrigued.
“The old library. I find myself in need of a distraction, something to keep me occupied until my afternoon lesson. As you said, I am in need of a hobby, and I did use to enjoy my time lost in the pages of those books. I might as well see if they still hold the same appeal now that I am grown.”
The woman smiled. “Very well, mi’lord,” she said, turning him back to the keep. “To the library it is...”
“It is unwise to measure your journey against the curated highlights of another. For comparison is an unruly blade that often wounds its wielder. Know this: life is, and will always remain, inherently unfair, distributing burdens and blessings in unequal measure. Therefore, it is important to always remember that true peace can only be found by honoring your unique path rather than mourning the success of others.”
— A wise man’s thoughts on the unfair nature of life
Nel’harna is the world of dreams. Said to be the realm in which Sor’et-tarr slumbers. Mortals believe that when they sleep, their spirits seep into Nel’harna to be closer to the creator.
Sor’et-tarr is the elven name for The Sleeper. She (or he in some cultures) is the creator goddess who slumbers after using all her power in the ‘making of the world’.