Daelan
Revered Elder
There upon a broken stone wall slumped a middle-aged man. His worn boots were soft black, turned gray and thin with time and use, and one was perched atop a low, broken hunk of granite. He wore dark brown trousers, a white shirt, and a green suede vest. The vest was buttoned, and strained a bit for the belly beneath. The chipped point of a gnarled wooden staff rested in the dust beside his lower boot, and the other end of the stick stood more than a foot above his windblown hair. The staff rolled across his collar bone into the crook of his neck with the breeze, and the familiar charge coiling beneath the worn wood surface brought the hairs at the base of his neck to attention.
Daelan Magan squinted bright blue eyes, crinkled with decades of mirth and scratched at his once-red beard, now shot with streaks of gray. “This is ridiculous,” he muttered, shaking his head as he glared at the ruin angrily, as though his irritation carried some influence over disinterested rock and wood.
The pile of sticks and stone which was the target of his ire was strewn and broken across a span nearly a hundred feet across, and hundreds more deep. This plot of land had, once, proudly borne the de facto hub of all things in the Capitol. Commercial, social, and political events all took place within those sturdy walls of log and stone, often simultaneously. How many arguments had that now-shattered foundation seen? How many bodies had fallen onto those heavy floorboards? How many blades wet, bones broken, blood sprayed against tooth and claw? How many stolen kisses and amorous liaisons by her roaring firelight?
Daelan coughed, once, and stood. “Sentimental garbage…” he leaned the staff against the low entry wall and lifted his dusty wool riding coat from where he had sat upon it, whipping its folds open with a sharp SNAP. He was scowling as he fished his shirtsleeves out through the coat, and wondered why he’d bothered to show up again in the first place.
“It’s not like we loved you, old girl,” he said aloud, shaking his staff at the rubble. “We spent as much time complaining about your inadequacies as was reasonable, and to anyone who would listen!” He shrugged, and the wind rolled dusty whorls down the overgrown road. The trees danced and shook in the twilight breeze, and the old mage caught a spark of Spring magic bubbling up in his chest. He tamped it down in irritation immediately.
“Oh, you think so, do you?” He shouted at the breeze. “Well, I’ll be damned if I care! I remember, alright, and you can just KEEP your bloody nostalgia! Your rose-colored nonsense is for older, weaker men than I!”
But then he smiled for a moment, and found himself inching closer to the broken steps, up over the scattered threshold, into the grass and earth that had once been cellar walls and barroom foundations. He squinted back through the years as he hopped gingerly over shattered dancefloor boards and rusted wall sconces. He turned around and strong walls were suddenly whole and the place was warm and golden with firelight, bright with laughter and music and smelled strongly of ale and the blood of a good fight! He was a younger man, excited and enchanted by the thrill of it all. The endless possibility! The power of the place was undeniable, even now.
It had been dumb luck and weird fortune that had built this old world in the first place. And someone had cared enough to keep the world open even in the absence of all his old friends. Daelan had strolled back into this plane after many years’ adventuring in other realities, and somehow this was the only place he stopped to remember. He sighed, long and low, “Gods but I’m a relic even to the Old Guards that followed. I was there since almost the beginning of this place… I wonder, is it dead now, or just asleep? If I do nothing, will darkness consume what’s left, or can it yet be fought?”
Daelan Magan, Wizard. Shapechanger. Conjurer. Warrior. Elder. Chronomancer. Once, he had played the hero here. Now, he had more interest in playing host. Perhaps let the kids try their hands this time… He rolled his eyes and shook his head, a grin creeping across his weathered face. “I’m an old fool,” he muttered, gripping his gnarled staff and rising a foot off the ground as spring winds whipped the tails of his green riding coat.
***
The bar was perfect, polished oak, and well stocked with a variety of all the old favorites Daelan could recall from his youth. The barstools stood empty, but they were made whole again. The walls were tight and strong, and the hearth burned with a welcoming fire. Torches lit the Common Room, darted occasionally with a lamp here, a candelabra there. The place had always been a bit eclectic, and the mage liked it that way. Stairs led up through the shadowy rafters and off to sleeping rooms, doorways opened onto the kitchens and any number of accommodations. The stable, the well house, the workshops and outbuildings were all restored, and the Common –the heart of the place—was back and whole, for another hundred years at least. Not one to reinvent the wheel, Daelan had taken the place –the entire lot—from his vision of the past and simply replaced the ruin it had later become with its previous version. As though rewriting reality with an older save file from a better time was a simple thing. It wasn’t so tricky, after all, if you knew the way.
The sun had set, and the whole affair was incongruous with the destroyed city without, a golden firelit beacon in a sea of cold blue-gray.
On the bar he placed a single Coin, a Dagger, a Chalice, and a scroll, sealed in wax with the emblem of a burning dragon’s claw. He clutched his old Staff and rapped it once on the floor, sparking a handful of spectral attendants to life, at least until more people arrived. “I’ll have an ale, please,” he asked a spectral wench, politely. “There by the fire in that old chair,” he said, and walked over to a familiar reclining seat. “Maybe they’ll come and maybe they won’t. We’ll just have to wait and see.”
Outside, above the doorway was a weathered wood sign bearing the words “Ayenee Tavern” swinging back and forth in the warm Spring wind.
Daelan Magan squinted bright blue eyes, crinkled with decades of mirth and scratched at his once-red beard, now shot with streaks of gray. “This is ridiculous,” he muttered, shaking his head as he glared at the ruin angrily, as though his irritation carried some influence over disinterested rock and wood.
The pile of sticks and stone which was the target of his ire was strewn and broken across a span nearly a hundred feet across, and hundreds more deep. This plot of land had, once, proudly borne the de facto hub of all things in the Capitol. Commercial, social, and political events all took place within those sturdy walls of log and stone, often simultaneously. How many arguments had that now-shattered foundation seen? How many bodies had fallen onto those heavy floorboards? How many blades wet, bones broken, blood sprayed against tooth and claw? How many stolen kisses and amorous liaisons by her roaring firelight?
Daelan coughed, once, and stood. “Sentimental garbage…” he leaned the staff against the low entry wall and lifted his dusty wool riding coat from where he had sat upon it, whipping its folds open with a sharp SNAP. He was scowling as he fished his shirtsleeves out through the coat, and wondered why he’d bothered to show up again in the first place.
“It’s not like we loved you, old girl,” he said aloud, shaking his staff at the rubble. “We spent as much time complaining about your inadequacies as was reasonable, and to anyone who would listen!” He shrugged, and the wind rolled dusty whorls down the overgrown road. The trees danced and shook in the twilight breeze, and the old mage caught a spark of Spring magic bubbling up in his chest. He tamped it down in irritation immediately.
“Oh, you think so, do you?” He shouted at the breeze. “Well, I’ll be damned if I care! I remember, alright, and you can just KEEP your bloody nostalgia! Your rose-colored nonsense is for older, weaker men than I!”
But then he smiled for a moment, and found himself inching closer to the broken steps, up over the scattered threshold, into the grass and earth that had once been cellar walls and barroom foundations. He squinted back through the years as he hopped gingerly over shattered dancefloor boards and rusted wall sconces. He turned around and strong walls were suddenly whole and the place was warm and golden with firelight, bright with laughter and music and smelled strongly of ale and the blood of a good fight! He was a younger man, excited and enchanted by the thrill of it all. The endless possibility! The power of the place was undeniable, even now.
It had been dumb luck and weird fortune that had built this old world in the first place. And someone had cared enough to keep the world open even in the absence of all his old friends. Daelan had strolled back into this plane after many years’ adventuring in other realities, and somehow this was the only place he stopped to remember. He sighed, long and low, “Gods but I’m a relic even to the Old Guards that followed. I was there since almost the beginning of this place… I wonder, is it dead now, or just asleep? If I do nothing, will darkness consume what’s left, or can it yet be fought?”
Daelan Magan, Wizard. Shapechanger. Conjurer. Warrior. Elder. Chronomancer. Once, he had played the hero here. Now, he had more interest in playing host. Perhaps let the kids try their hands this time… He rolled his eyes and shook his head, a grin creeping across his weathered face. “I’m an old fool,” he muttered, gripping his gnarled staff and rising a foot off the ground as spring winds whipped the tails of his green riding coat.
***
The bar was perfect, polished oak, and well stocked with a variety of all the old favorites Daelan could recall from his youth. The barstools stood empty, but they were made whole again. The walls were tight and strong, and the hearth burned with a welcoming fire. Torches lit the Common Room, darted occasionally with a lamp here, a candelabra there. The place had always been a bit eclectic, and the mage liked it that way. Stairs led up through the shadowy rafters and off to sleeping rooms, doorways opened onto the kitchens and any number of accommodations. The stable, the well house, the workshops and outbuildings were all restored, and the Common –the heart of the place—was back and whole, for another hundred years at least. Not one to reinvent the wheel, Daelan had taken the place –the entire lot—from his vision of the past and simply replaced the ruin it had later become with its previous version. As though rewriting reality with an older save file from a better time was a simple thing. It wasn’t so tricky, after all, if you knew the way.
The sun had set, and the whole affair was incongruous with the destroyed city without, a golden firelit beacon in a sea of cold blue-gray.
On the bar he placed a single Coin, a Dagger, a Chalice, and a scroll, sealed in wax with the emblem of a burning dragon’s claw. He clutched his old Staff and rapped it once on the floor, sparking a handful of spectral attendants to life, at least until more people arrived. “I’ll have an ale, please,” he asked a spectral wench, politely. “There by the fire in that old chair,” he said, and walked over to a familiar reclining seat. “Maybe they’ll come and maybe they won’t. We’ll just have to wait and see.”
Outside, above the doorway was a weathered wood sign bearing the words “Ayenee Tavern” swinging back and forth in the warm Spring wind.