A Call to Fate

Chapter 2 - The Mist

This time, however, something was gloriously different. As dusk fell completely, a moon rose, shining bright and full, not that it could be seen through the mist, but nonetheless casting an opalescent sheen across the land, bringing the occasional pearly swirl of fog. Through this almost mystical semi-darkness, a faint but steady light could be discerned, but only just, glowing the same colour as the weak moonlight. Reg, on watch, stole closer, trying to work out what the source of it was. Even as he did so, images of will-o'-the-wisp played through his mind, those lights which were known to lead travellers astray and leave them lost and stranded, but as he rationalised, they were mostly known in bogs and the like, and besides, he was intelligent enough not to be fooled by such things. Finding his way back would be a simple matter of turning around, and he had done that plenty of times. The fact that the light was shining from off of the path was a matter of no consequence.

He pushed on, careful not to make too much noise, and as he did, he was relieved to note as well that the light seemed to be stationary, which to him meant it probably wasn't actively malicious. It didn't take long to get close to it, the light wouldn't have been able to shine particularly far through fog this dense, and as he reached it, he couldn't help the smile that crept across his face, as he beheld a door, built into the side of a large barrow, and surmounted by strange writing that, whilst he couldn't read, certainly looked like runic. He'd have to get Talani to check it over though, but at last there was something to be happy about. The source of light was also revealed to be this writing, which was emanating its own soft white glow, which although dissipated by the fog, was still bright, and certainly felt like moonlight. Spirits finally lifted, Reg briefly examined the door, and finding it locked, turned to go back to camp and gather the others.

Here, of course, he encountered his first problem. Everything looked the same when he turned around again, and the light that had been his beacon was now an impediment, reflecting off the fog instead of penetrating it. Still, this was only as much of a problem as he allowed it to be, and so he stooped low to the ground to find the footprints he had left in the wet earth, and resolved that even if he had to crawl back to camp, it would be a simple matter of retracing his steps. "How pride comes before a fall" said a nagging little voice in the back of his head, but it was quickly squashed as he found a footprint, and then another, which a brief examination showed to be coming from a direction moving towards this door, and so much lead back away. He wasn't much of a tracker, but even this couldn't be too hard to follow, and his night-vision was coming in very handy here. And so he walked, stooped low to the ground, eyes pointed firmly downwards, taking careful stock of each footprint, and not making a move each time until he had found the next one. Step by excruciating step he worked his way along, and once he had been going for a while, he looked up again, hoping to catch a glimpse of the path, which he knew he could easily follow back to camp.

As he looked up, though, his confidence turned to dismay as he found himself back in front of this mysterious door. That little voice grew a bit louder now, but he resolved to stay calm. He must have just found the wrong set of footprints, one which had walked in a large, backwards circle from this door back to it. That was, of course, a very rational explanation, and he tried incredibly hard to convince himself of it. Once again he looked, and found another set of tracks, which he placed one of his own feet in, and which matched his print exactly. This must be his, and so once again he followed it, and once again was disappointed. That voice which had already begun to grow in confidence, was now yelling in perverse glee at the situation he had created for himself, but he quieted it again. Taking the advice given by all parents to children at risk of wandering off, he chose to stay put now, figuring that whoever was on watch next would notice his absence, see the light, and come to investigate themselves. It was, therefore, just a matter of waiting.

And so wait he did, taking the opportunity to work on his swordplay as he did so. He was not fool enough, of course, to leave his weapons behind when he wandered off from camp alone into the mists of an incredibly haunted part of the world with no navigational aid. That would be the mark of a total idiot. Even had he not brought his sword, it would be difficult to describe him as truly 'unarmed', though. A student of magic, he was trained in an ancient Elvish practice, known variously as "bladesong", "spelldance", or some other similar term. It was, in essence, a focus on mastering the sword alongside spells, and in capable hands, it was incredibly deadly. It required, amongst other things, an incredible amount of discipline, and part of that was regular practice, which he decided to get in now if there was going to be nothing else interesting happening for a while. Just for fun, he tried the door a couple more times, but it remained stubbornly locked, even though he jiggled the handle a lot.

The actual art of the spelldance was almost trance-like when performed properly, and so Reg was not sure how long it had been when he began to hear muffled voices, indistinct, off through the mist. He sheathed his sword and wiped off the film of sweat that had developed during his training, in spite of the temperature. "It took you long enough" he called out. In truth, he didn't know how long it had been, but it never hurt to try to claim the moral high ground, even when being rescued. "I've been waiting for you chumps to show up". He could see a number of figures in the mist, but anything beyond their shape was impossible to make out. "I think you'll be wanting to take a look at this one Talani, it's all written in runes and I can't make heads or tails of it. All Runic to me." He chuckled inwardly at his own little joke, but no reply came back from the mist.

He called out louder. "Hello? Can you chaps hear me? Over here." He opened his palm and produced a bright, lamp-like globe of light, which served the purpose of almost entirely blinding him, but should hopefully light him up nicely for the others to find. Again he called out. "Hello?" Again there was no response. The voice in the back of his head, so effectively buried, spoke up once more: "You've done it now Reg old boy." By the light he was holding, he looked around, a slow fear now working up from his gut towards his throat. The mists swirled, each movement scattering the light more and more aggressively, until he slowly began to see that these swirls were, in fact, taking form, and these forms were not those of his friends.

They were, however, getting closer to him.