Fawn BW XXXVII

Fawn imagines himself floating through a cold, dark mist; he drifts along, hundreds of feet above a deep, rift valley, bounded by ice walls and glaciers. As far as he can tell, the valley floor is strewn with jagged rocks, covered in ice and snow. Ahead, a vast construction appears ice-wall by ice-wall, tower by tower, out of the gloaming. Drifting like detritus on a wide, old, dark river, Fawn heads inextricably towards an opening in a tower from which a slightly brighter shade of grey struggles to penetrate the gloom. Gently nudged by some unseen hand, Fawn enters a sombre room through a glassless gothic-style archway.

At the farthest end of the leaden room stands a tall, slender, pale woman with silver-white, lifeless hair, clothed in grey silk which clings to her perfect form. Fawn can’t help but notice that the fine silk of her dress occasionally glistens and shimmers in harmony with her movements, reflecting what little light creeps in. Apart from these random sparks of clarity, she blends in with her surroundings perfectly; almost chameleon-like, it is hard to tell where she begins and the colourless, sombre room ends. However, as Fawn watches, she turns to address another entity in the room, revealing the other half of her face and body. Hideously disfigured, this half is stark against the indistinct background: black, burnt and rotten skin, appears stretched over strong, prominent bones into a hideous, sickening form of death.

The other figure in the room is equally tall and lithe. Dressed almost entirely in black, his clothes starkly contrast the dull surroundings. Over the dense, black furs, the man wears gold and silver jewellery of intricate Norse design. His high, soft boots, hose and gloves are also all coal-black and sparsely bejewelled. The man’s finely chiselled features display a likeness to the woman opposite, except that he is not disfigured. His long, black hair is well kempt, tied and plaited at the back, and woven with golden threads. For Fawn, the greatest similarity between the two is in the bottomless-black of their eyes; it is clear they are related.

“Are you certain, father?” asks the woman, briefly looking at the man and displaying the blackened half of her face. Nodding, the man slowly drifts to a lounger, placed between the two, and slides into it, serpent-like, before answering, “All outer planes agree.”

“They all side with Anubis?” the grey female snaps; the flash of anger makes the pale side of her face darken.

“They do,” her father answers, offhandedly, without lifting his gaze.

“And Odin?” presses the lady.

“Haha,” the man chuckles, teeth flashing brightly, “He has turned his eye from the Prime.”

“And you?” the woman pouts, childishly.

“You know, Hel, I do my best work where my father decides not to look,” the man’s tone is serious, although his eyes shine mischievously. Hel regards her father closely, gauging his answer before asking the question, “Then you will help?”

“Of course, daughter,” he answers not unexpectedly. Intrigued, one of the woman’s eyebrows lifts slightly, “How?” she asks suspiciously.

“Well,” the man’s teeth flash again as a smile breaks across his face, “I have learned from you.”

“Oh,” Hel’s brow plummets and her eyes narrow, “how so?” The father stands swiftly, making Fawn jump, and pronounces loudly, “You have taken a Sylph, so will I.” Fawn notices the woman take a pace back, before recovering her composure, “Oh?” she asks as nonchalantly as possible.

“Yes, my malevolence,” the man confirms, pacing back and forth between them, confidently, whilst continuing the discussion, “you have aligned yours against the elves, I will align mine against the second born.”

A smile, or was it a grimace, threatened to split the daughter’s face, “Which Sylph will you choose, father?”

“Bál,” the father answers without breaking pace, still seemingly deep in thought, plotting a future act of mischief.

“The one that resides on the Plane of Fire,” Hel confirms to herself whilst looking at the dreary floor, “that explains the young serpent’s interest” she muses before looking up again at her parent who continued to pace, “and your ability to move the Gate. What cleverness have you woven there, father?” The man stops and regards his daughter as if with new eyes, “They use fire in so many ways, I thought it would be fun to discover how it might be influenced for our gain.” It was the man’s turn to examine the floor, deep in thought, “Of course, Surtr was delighted,” he mutters, before raising his eyes once again, “The serpent is named Rantor the Red by those new to the Prime and is young in their realm.”

“He is joined with Bál I presume?”

“Yes.”

She waits for further explanation that never comes, “Those of Olympia will resist…” she tests.

“Their father is as disinterested as ours,” the smile returns, along with the pacing, “And, since Anubis’ withdrawal, no other Gods consider the Prime worthy of interest. This is where Ragnarok will begin.”

A troubled expression flashes across the woman’s sullen physiognomy, “We are not ready.”

“No,” the parent confirms, “but the seeds have begun to be sewn.”

“You know many have failed, from both the Abyss and the Hells, despite your assistance,” she tests again.

“But perhaps I was looking too far from home,” the man replies, with arms outstretched as if to embrace this dreary place, “…perhaps, as some prophecies foretell, it is from within your own realm the power to turn the tide against them shall come.”

“Anubis forebode it” shoots the woman, “and even the mighty Hades has yet to convince him otherwise.” As if to a child she continues, “Look, the Egyptian power over the Path is too strong. We have not the worshippers to overcome them.”

Fawn detects the merest hint of malice in the man’s rejoinder, “We have no need of worshippers,” he states before smiling confidently again, “just cunning and guile.”

“Of which you have plenty;” Hel laughs cheerily, “do tell father, what is it that you have done?”

“Always direct…” he sneers testily.

“Because you are not, father.” It was the daughter’s turn to sneer.

“Well,” the man began to explain slowly, “we no longer need the use of the Egyptian’s Pylon to move the dead to the Prime.” Hel knew her interruption would be unwelcome, “How so?” she needles.

“Bál has negotiated with Imix and agreed safe passage through his lands for our chosen allies,” the man states triumphantly, as if it were the end of the matter. But it clearly had not satisfied the daughter, “In return for what?”

“Our assistance when he, or one of his powerful friends, asks,” answered the man disinterestedly and once again reclining in the chaise longue.

“What might that entail?

Exhaustedly her father replies, “He said that he might, from time to time, have need of something or someone to be liberated from the Prime.”

“Really?” she stabs, “Someone? Something? Alive or dead?”

“He didn’t say,” the man replied simply whilst twiddling is thumbs. Noticing this was not going to satisfy his daughter the man continues, “I saw no reason to disagree. Besides, in exchange for my help with your plan, I need something from you.”

“What?”

“Your servant to kill the Paladin,” the father waits, anticipating a protestation that did not come, “and I want his sword.”

“You want his sword?” the woman asks incredulously.

“No, not me; it’s for another realm – another deal.”

“Keep your mysteries, father,” Hel chides, before moving on, having (seemingly) accepted her end of the bargain, “How does my chosen one travel from my realm to the Prime?” Fully at repose, the man knows he has won, “Bál will lead him to an Azer-owned hall, close to the Fountains of Creation, which is where the Gate to the Prime exists.”

“Oh yes, the Prime Gate you changed just after I had secured access for the Arch Devil – he was not best pleased.”

“Yes, my baleful one,” the man’s pace quickened as if he feared being drawn into an old argument, “Imix needed it there, so I moved it from beneath the gnome and dwarf halls in the far east of the lands now known as Everinstar.”

“You tricked Dor into using his Ring to help move the Gate from Nagrad to Crag Ûn, who did you need to trick to change the Gate again?” It seemed to Fawn that the man grew tired of explaining his deeds – their glory should be obvious, “Dor told Ishtur what he had done when they met in the defence of his tower against the Devil; I simply suggested that to stop it happening again they could combine the power of their trinkets…”

“So, they swapped the access points from the inner planes to the Prime,” the daughter interrupts again.

“Well, not really swapped…” the man seemed to squirm slightly as he had to admit some failure.

“I know, father; you set off a random chain of events across the Prime. The Lords of the other Planes are not happy with you.”

“Hmm,” was that concern Fawn witnessed on the man’s face? If it was, it was very short lived, “oh well. I think something worse may come from this.”

“Worse!?” screams the woman.

Yes, they now know this can be done,” as he speaks, the man examines the blue-grey cushion on which he sits, “they are also putting in place a mechanism that will attempt to control it. I understand Hephaestus is very pleased with himself.”

“How long will I have access to Crag Ûn?”

“Not long, child.”

“And to where will the Gate move thereafter?”

“Only Orodruin knows.”