Dafydd Malek Vision
The room is smoky and poorly lit; in one corner sitting in a high-backed chair is a white-haired male preoccupied with a long clay pipe. Stood opposite the wizened man is a tall, thick-set human dressed in an ermined trimmed blue cloak, white silk shirt, grey hose and soft leather boots. His long blonde hair is plaited neatly and his face, whilst wise and kind, retains the innocence of youth.
Having re-lighted his pipe, the older man leaned back on his chair and drew in the sweet smelling smoke, “Your time has come my friend” he announced exhaling blue-grey smog.
“I understand so, yes.” Dafydd noticed a worried frown creased the brow of the otherwise handsome younger man.
“Have you come for my assistance or my blessing?” No eye contact was made.
The younger man shuffled uncomfortably before his senior, “Thou know’st I have to do this friend, the Gods expect it of me.”
“Yes, so you say; you know that it will unstable the Prime beyond our understanding.” The reply was swift as if much rehearsed. There was still no eye contact between the two.
“So thou sayeth…But hast that not already happened?” There was more here Dafydd knew. The younger was not blind, was not an idiot that could be pushed around, he had the confidence of a man certain of his faith. “Let us be at peace, my friend,” he continued, aware that his confidence and unwavering belief could upset others with strong minds. “If I am successful such a power will I wield that we may defeat the enemy swiftly.”
Another smoke ring emerged from the wizened man as he rocked the chair forward and brought his crystal clear blue eyes to bear on his younger friend, “Two wrongs do not make it right my friend.”
“No friend, but they may bring a balance of their own.” Came the swift response – no imbecile this…
Unable to hold the young man’s gaze the reply was unsatisfactory, “You know my thoughts on this Bavarik; I will not change my counsel now.”
“Thou see’est both sides of the coin – life and death – far clearer than I. It is not a change in thy counsel that I seek but an understanding of what lies beneath thy words. Why should I not seek to bring balance against that which has come to the Prime through ill-gotten gain, with a righteous struggle against evil?” Bavarik dragged a chair from its resting place against a wall and aligned it opposite the old man, as if deploying troops in formation against an entrenched foe.
“You are correct Bavarik, I do see these things better than you. I also see that it would be better to return that which should not be here rather than bring another object to the Prime in order to offer balance – I fear balance would never be achieved by such a course of action.” Again eye contact was brief, as if these two were finally confronting something that threatened to undermine their relationship irrevocably.
“But is it not so? Balance, as thou hast determined it to be, no longer exists; the second born have seen to that. Surely we must counteract the Stone?”
“How my friend; how?” The question was rhetorical. “We know not what this Stone is capable of except that it is reputed to be of great power…” The Paladin leant closer, to the edge of the blue-grey smoke, “Thou hast sought counsel of the elder races, gained agreement that their artefacts should be joined in the battle against the enemy and I’ll wager have come up with an idea of how to distribute this power. What is different?”
A long draw on the pipe preceded a considered response, “The Sword and the Stone are linked…I know not how has yet or, indeed, why…but they are. We need the Rings to defeat the Devil on the Prime but we may need the Stone to defeat him in his own realm. My friend, that is the only way we can be assured that the abomination will not return…”
The holy warrior leant back, considering his friend’s words. “Do’st thou not consider the link with the Sword significant enough for me to bring it to the Prime?”
“Oh yes; it is significant my friend and I have every faith that you will bear it well. I worry that it will not counteract the Stone as you say but it will reinforce it. Metal and mineral…I sense there is more to this than I understand.” He drew on his pipe gain and seemed fixated by the movement of the smoke.
“Is it not what we do with that power that will determine whether the Prime remains in balance?” Bavarik probably knew the answer but needed to ask anyway.
“It does my friend, but I fear that we would drive out the enemy only to replace them with an even more fearful rule…You know this answer but there is little I can do to dissuade you from your destiny.” As Dafydd watched, Bavarik walked a few paces to the door and Lastar chanted the barely audible words from a poem Dafydd recalled, “The platinum though, seems threatening, but to some it’s of a dream, and Destiny, whom beside we walk will show us the sword and whom we stalk. Be them with this platinum sword to pace beside a foe so near, or be it with the crystal matrix, to path our future, forever fixed.”
The vision changes to a living room sumptuously bedecked in silk fabrics and comfortable furnishings; the walls are decorated with tapestries and are studded with stained-glass windows. The floor is marble and the roof is gold, studded with gems to make a colourful mosaic depicting a bright blue eye. In the centre of the room is one of the most beautiful women Dafydd has ever seen. She has a natural beauty of a human that captures his mind more readily than even Milai. Young, her eyes betray a wisdom and a fear. She faces a warrior nearly twice her size, dressed in plate mail but without helmet. He is clearly Norse.
“He came back from the depths my Lady, his mind is quite unhinged. He speaks of little else but that which he now treasures above life itself. That is except thee, my Queen.” The man finds it difficult to maintain contact with her deep green eyes.
“Oh Leveryn, hast he changed – as I feared?” She holds his hand and casts her eyes to the marble floor, knowing the answer.
“He hast, your Majesty.”
“How so, Castellan?” She asks slowly as if reaffirming that she really wanted to know.
“Oh my Queen, his nature is torn and twisted – at one both violent and innocent, like a child still finding its boundaries amongst adults. But above all it his is humour which has suffered the most. No friendly gibes and turn of wit. No keen smile and twinkling eye as he rebukes the guard for unidentifiable inadequacies. My Queen he hast changed.” He holds her hand and offers his shoulder.
“He will not see me still?” She gently pushed the warrior back and clasped his other hand.
“No your Majesty, he remains in barracks.” He lifts his eyes and regards her with a deep sympathy.
She returns his look and drops his hands, instead crossing her arms and clasping her shoulders as if delivering a much needed hug, “Ahh; what will I then, my Lord?”
“Your Majesty, he needs you and your counsel more than any barrack can provide. If I may, would you go to him? He needs to talk of his experience and I am certain he would not wish to burden us. Perhaps someone stronger and of more closeness?”
“Yes, Lord Castellan, perhaps I ought to see him…”
“My Lord, what hast thou done? What is it that thy own mind bears more than it should? Oh why..?” She kneels before her husband.
“Lady of mine let me tell of thee what I have here.” He looks at the sword with complete reverence and drifts into verse which starts as little more than a whisper but which rises and falls in a tempo of one extolling the virtues of a higher power …
“No weapon can hurt me,
But the blade with an invisible gleam,
To destroy all opponents,
With a fury unseen,
Striking down evil,
As if it were the greatest killing machine,
Decimating all wrongs with a wrath obscene,
Protecting the weak,
With a might unsheathed,
Delivering with righteousness,
That makes it the ultimate weapon of empty fury,
That can never be beat,
A divine weapon of the strong,
That can never be held by the weak,
A weapon of fortune,
That makes the fate of demons bleak,
A weapon that can cut anything,
When no other can accomplish such a feat,
A weapon to enact rage,
And trumpet the coming defeat,
A weapon from the history page,
That can be seen where only eyes meet.
This sword is alive,
With the blood of those it has slain;
This sword has a mind,
With the one that has faded.
Nothing can break its inviolable blade,
It never needs sharpening,
Nor will it ever fade.
Nothing can resist the will of the blade,
As foretold, by the god who had it made.
It is held in a dark sheath,
To be contained in the greatest of heat,
To always be its carrier’s protector,
To always defend its wielder.
Nothing can harm this blade's invisible metal,
Nor can it be stopped, for any fight to settle.
Strong is the blade that is forever unseen,
Until blood covers all, of its invisible gleam.
Strong is the might, of a weapon unsheathed,
When held by right, to be unbeaten.
Strong is the sword, that is always in a clash,
To never be forgotten, and never be held back.
Demons have died for this blade,
Heroes have risen to fame by its way,
Nightmares have fallen slowly away,
And dreams have come true at the end of the day.
This is the power of a sword wielded,
by a legend of destruction;
to have its carrier fielded
the Gods’ weapon of inestimable annihilation,
to have vengeance unequalled against those who enact rage and infraction.
It is the weapon to end all conflicts,
Which can destroy all objects,
A weapon whose pain is felt when inflicted,
And foreshadows the coming of death to the defeated.
The strength of all swords, lies in this one blade,
From which it was forged, by the God that had it made,
This sword has been quenched with heroes long forgotten,
Only to be unleashed on all that is rotten,
Nothing can resist its divine construction
Nothing can resist it's awesome destruction,
But one thing is for sure, of its only instruction,
All that is made, by evil's rage,
Can always be hurt, by the will of the blade.”