War of Dawn - Memoir and Chapter 1

Memoir #1

What do you do when your world crumbles to dust? A thousand years ago, the entirety of humanity asked that question. Their society, their technology, everything came crashing down the moment the Valnr tore through the Divine Shroud and into our plane of existence.

Their goal was simple: Prana. This vital energy lies in every living creature and the invaders were all eager to collect. With power beyond compare, a civilization thousands of years old was reduced to rubble. Worse, many who lost their lives were raised into undeath, further bolstering the Valnr's forces.

This period was called the War of Twilight, but a "war" implies a clash of forces; what occurred was extermination. Entire regions of the world were reduced to ash, billions dead. The status quo only shifted when, from across the Shroud, the Altr gods reached out to one Finnish woman: Eliina Vanhanen. Naming themselves our creators, having been at war with the Valnr for millennia, the Altr empowered Eliina to do the same. They proclaimed her the first Scion, and commanded: unite and fight.

And so it was. This lone woman was tasked with molding the ashes of mankind into a fighting force capable of facing the Valnr. "Impossible" seems the only way to describe it. Still, Elinna and her first recruits, Marco Alvaréz and Viktor Iliev, gathered men and women from across the world into the newly formed Corps of Scions. Together, they learned the arts of combat and magic that crushed our civilization.

"Grand Scions", the three of them were called. Calling them actual gods would've also been appropriate, considering what they accomplished. Under their command, mankind did the impossible: the Valnr were routed, sent back to the Northern Reaches where they first entered our world. They would never leave again, as the Scions and Altr locked the frozen land behind the Paling. Within, the battle raged on unabated.

After years of bloody conflict, the Scions stormed the Valnr's headquarters at the dead center of the Northern Reaches. The Valnr God, their leader, was killed; without its power, the rest followed suit.

A pyrrhic victory, though. Eighty five percent of the Corps was killed during the campaign, including Eliina and Viktor who perished in the final confrontation. Still, the War of Twilight was over; the Age of Dawn began as mankind went on to rebuild.

What remained of the Corps, now hailed as heroes, reorganized under Marco and maintained their vigil. The problem, however, is that one cannot watch the entire world with half-blind eyes. Humanity had two centuries of peace; a surprisingly long period, all things considered.

Still, it ended: on November 17th, 203 After Dawn, the Valnr returned as the Divine Shroud was once again torn open in the north. By human hands, even... though such people hardly deserve to be called "human".

But while the Corps was in shambles, the Paling held strong; the Valnr were still corralled, unable to leave the Northern Reaches. So, they restarted their old campaign in earnest: claim the Prana of anything within reach and search for a way out to the rest of the world. The remaining Scions, meanwhile, were forced into another war – one they were wholly understaffed for.

[...]

That was eight centuries ago. Eight hundred years in an unending standstill against an enemy that the Scions couldn't beat nor could be beaten by. It all had become mundane, really. The world at large mostly forgot about the situation in the Northern Reaches; at most, the Corps received token support. The Paling kept the problem contained, so that's all that mattered. Meanwhile, the battle against the Valnr struck people as a very distant piece of history.

But the Corps does not forget. The Corps does not stop. As Scions die, they are replaced with fresh recruits. As those recruits die, they are also replaced. When the time comes, as sure as the sun rises, those chosen by the gods must answer the call to join as bricks in the bulwark.

The Scions remain. So long as one is alive, the vigil continues...

--Excerpt from "Memoirs of a Scion", author unknown

Chapter 1: Life, Such As It Is

Date: 1003 After Dawn, May 14th

In the southwestern region of the Northern Reaches lies the mining town of Litnir and around the town's center, Gustaff's bar. Sunlight pours into the lone window in one of four small guest rooms on the upper floor of the bar, signaling the start of a new workday for Hilda Solberg. A sixteen year-old girl of average stature and build, she slowly rises off her hard straw mattress and stretches her arms wide. The short creaks coming off her bones play the usual soundtrack to her mornings.

With a sluggish gait, Hilda makes her over to the tiny bowl of water and mirror set by her lone window. Bidding her reflection good day with a long yawn, her tired chestnut-colored eyes set upon her pale skin marked in the usual checkerboard fashion; courtesy of a deep sleep atop sheets that may well have been made of sawdust.

Not that her hair’s doing too much better. The nigh-silver strands flow down the back of her neck with drunken swerves, all running off in their own direction. The only constants are the wispy bangs that dangle by her brow, always looking for ways over to her chestnut eyes. With a nicked wooden brush, she spends all of two minutes untangling knots before tossing the tool aside. Ever unruly, Hilda’s long since given up on trying to put them to order – it’s easier that way.

Hilda washes her face and flings open the creaking wooden window; the cold northern wind waltzes in, bringing in the familiar smell of the mines' furnaces. The smell of hard work. With one last yawn climbing out her dry lips, she moves to the small wooden cabinet and gets herself dressed: dark woolen pants, a white woolen shirt and a gray apron.

The same clothes she's worn for quite the long time, as purchasing new ones isn't exactly a simple matter. Litnir's mines – once one of the bigger sources of copper, iron and silver ore for Europe – have fallen into very hard times over the last six years. And if the mines are doing poorly, everyone is doing poorly.

Still, that’s never stopped her from doing her job. Living in the harsh Northern Reaches, paired with some exigent circumstances, she's been working here as a waitress for ten years – the longest standing one in town. Not glamorous in the slightest but she likes it well enough. That said, the first thing Hilda sees when she heads down the stairs and into the bar does not make for a very inspiring sight.

The wooden walls, floor and tables, once shiny and elegant, have long since taken this deathly gray color; the vivid red drapes have become tarnished, their color fading as if in reflection of the town. All is lit by small, pitiful candle stubs and a dreary fireplace, which seems likely to fizzle out with every crack of its embers.

Having been here long enough to remember better times, it’s like having a bucket of cold water dropped on her at the start of every workday.

"Morning, Hilda," says Gustaff, already standing in his traditional spot behind the counter. An old, rather chubby German man in his late fifties, he is known around town for two things: his thick handlebar mustache which runs the length of his cheeks and being the only one with a steady supply of alcohol. The latter essentially makes him the most beloved man around.

"Morning," Hilda answers, taking a look at the establishment and noticing the distinct absence of her coworkers. "Where're Corrie and Erika? Not here yet?"

Gustaff shakes his head, staring at her with puckered lips. "And they won't be. Last I heard, they and their families were leaving for greener pastures."

Hilda sighs – that makes seven people just this week. Granted, this has been a very common occurrence for quite some time. Every month, Gustaff has to hire new folks to replace ones who've left.

"I've asked Olivia and Ingrid to fill in for them but they'll only be here later," he adds, placing a loaf bread, a glass of milk and a few slices of cheese atop the counter. "Here's breakfast. Eat it quick since we'll need to set things up ourselves."

"Hmhmm." Hilda nods.

She doesn't mind the extra workload and it's not like she has anything else to do. Laying dishes and steins, sweeping the floor, bringing food and drink from the kitchen, taking them back, washing everything... that's about standard fare for her daily life. She prefers it this way, too, as it's simple and she's more than used to it.

That said, despite the effort to get everything in place to open in the early hours, no client comes. Time slowly drags on, showing as much enthusiasm as everyone else.

"Looks like it'll be another one of those mornings..." Hilda sighs from her seat at the counter, tapping away at the wooden surface and looking wistfully at the establishment's unmoving door.

"Can't really do anything about it. People're either home or working right now." Gustaff sighs, busying himself by mixing various ingredients from his private stash in search of new drinks.

One would think, by the weird colors his concoctions often take, that they were dealing with a chemist at best, a would-be killer at worst. Thankfully for their clientele, the appearance is not representative of the flavor... usually.

Hilda turns her head towards him with a weary expression. "And, yet, here we are; just hoping to make any extra buck."

"If even a single patron comes, it helps."

"Yeah, yeah... I just can't help comparing this to before." Hilda turns on her seat and lays her elbows onto the counter, placing her chin upon her hands. "A whole lot was better back then..."

"No point in thinking about that. Now we just hav'ta worry about making ends meet if we want to keep the place running. God knows, the few miners left would go crazy without something to drink at the end of their shift," Gustaff says before taking a glance of the shadows outside to judge the time. "I reckon it's about one o'clock. Edda should have your deliveries ready."

"I'm on it," she replies, hopping off her seat and stepping towards the stone-walled kitchen.

While it may not fit their job description, the bar has taken upon itself to start a small food delivery service for Litnir. Any other businesses that covered this niche had closed up, so this was a very welcome source of added income.

The warmth irradiating from the kitchen slaps Hilda wide awake, as she knocks on the open door and beckons the attention of Edda, the cook. This native Northern Reaches woman in her late twenties, of long brown hair and fit figure despite her occupation, has worked here for over five years and her food is widely regarded as the best in town. Another person Gustaff hired from the other failing businesses.

"Ah, Hilda. Right on time," she says, greeting her with a quick glance before shifting her attention back to her boiling pots. "I'm just finishing the last dishes and then you can go."

There is no shortage of work for her with their little monopoly on food delivery. The kitchen around noon is always filled with the bubbling sounds of boiling water, the fizz and steam of oil on pans and the heat that emanates from her stove. Powerful smells of cooked pieces of meat, fish, cheese and soups waft everywhere, including the outside of the bar via a tiny window in the nearby door. That's by design, as one whiff is usually enough to hook the attention of potential patrons. Excellent advertisement.

A wide basket lies atop Edda's counter, several small jars and plates with many different kinds of foods set within, held in place by thin iron sheets, and all steaming hot. As she puts the final plate in, Edda closes the basket and hands it to Hilda. All the things inside always make for quite the heavy haul but all these years working here have at least boosted her upper body strength somewhat.

"Say hi to Fred for me," Edda requests.

"Sure thing." Hilda nods, shuffling towards the back door and pushing it open with her body.

Stepping outside, the clear and sunny weather contrasts heavily with the dirty streets of Litnir. No one would ever assume this was ever a bustling town, were they first vising it like this. Even Hilda, as she walks her delivery route, is always gripped by the nagging feeling that the Litnir she knew was secretly replaced and no one realized.

Most of the houses have long since turned disheveled and rundown – if they haven't been outright abandoned to the elements. The once stone-covered roads have deteriorated into a lovely mix of dirt, mud and/or snow; wild animals roam free as the local town guard has almost vanished, which means there often are rotting corpses of the creatures lying about.

The guard's diminished numbers also makes it easier for unsavory types to make their way into town – including, very rarely, necromancers of the Valnr. Thankfully, the Scions have always made quick work of those.

Many of Hilda’s old acquaintances and friends have long since gone elsewhere and most of the remaining population doesn’t want to stay, either; still, they’re forced to stay for whatever reasons, meaning the entire town always has this tangible gloom cast upon it.

Hilda couldn't care less about leaving, though. People only wish to move when it is to search for a better life and she has neither willingness nor any prospects that'd push her to do so. At least she has no problems getting out of bed in the morning to work, which is more than many can say.

Crossing the uneven streets and shooing away a particularly persistent dog, Hilda slowly treks due northwest of the town's center, to the mining district. From atop the buildings, the characteristic furnace smog and digs’ dust rise to greet her arrival. Walking along the top rim of the enormous central quarry, Hilda’s eyes trail the area to watch the frantic back and forth of the workers below. Carts roll out from the small mine shafts and a dozen men and women get busy, separating the few bits of good ore from the chunks of excavated "trash".

Overlooking it all from the edge of the top is the mining guild's copper-colored, wooden cottage. Heading in, Hilda finds only the secretary of Frederik, the guild's chief: Joan. A woman in her forties, always with her blonde hair tied up in a neat bun. Notoriously fussy, her lectures are known to break in irresponsible miners faster than any growling foreman. To Hilda, however, she’s just a sweet lady who speaks softly and, occasionally, mends her clothes – the savior of many tatters.

"Good day to you, Hilda. Here to make your deliveries?" she says.

"Yeah, Edda sends it with her regards... oof!" Hilda answers, grunting as she slowly drops the heavy basket atop a nearby table. "Where're Fred and the others?"

"Some more prospectors quit last week so they're filling in for them, Mr. Frederik included."

Figures..., Hilda thinks. These workers haven't the same spirit they once had, though she at least appreciates the fact that they left by their own volition. During the mining boom, the breakneck speed of the whole operation meant tiny things like "safety measures" and "making sure the mine shafts weren't being held up with sticks, spit and prayer" were often skipped. These men are lucky that they could even make the decision to leave – others didn't get that chance.

Joan inspects the meals within and, satisfied, hands Hilda a tinkling pouch of copper coins. "Here it is. Give the guild's regards to Edda, yes? I'm certain our people will enjoy this."

"'Course, Joan." Hilda nods faintly, grabbing the pouch and the basket from yesterday, and getting ready to head back. "Will we be seeing you at the bar tonight?"

"Maybe; it'll depend on Mr. Frederik. He's been quite busy searching for new clients."

"Still, huh?" Hilda feigns rubbing her eyes, so Joan doesn't see that she's rolling them. "Well, wish him luck – for all the good that'll do. See you later."

Fred has been the chief of the guild for nearly two years now but he's worked at the mines since the booming days. He's always been a hopeful sort, working with the idea that he can find someone willing to buy their ore again. Hilda has always been good friends with him but, honestly, the only word she would use to describe his efforts is "pointless".

We haven't found any big buyers for years... I doubt that'll change now. This is what we have and that's that, she grunts to herself. But it's not my problem...

Hilda makes her way back to the bar, seeing from the door that Ingrid and Olivia have already arrived; identical twins in their mid-twenties, it took Hilda the better part of a year to be able to tell one apart when they were first hired. Thankfully, it got easier when Ingrid decided to wear her almond-colored hair in a ponytail while Olivia kept hers short, at chin height. They are serving a handful of clients who've come in for lunch and quickly greet Hilda before refocusing on their work.

Hilda moves over and tosses the delivery money to Gustaff, who counts the coins and tucks them away underneath the counter.

"Everything looks good. Have I ever thanked you for getting us in touch with Fred? I reckon I oughta," he puffs happily, causing his mustache to flail about.

"Ah, it was nothing." Hilda shrugs. "Especially with how long you've let me stay here."

"No, that was nothing. I couldn't just throw you out after what happened."

"Thanks... I don't really know where I'd be, if not here," Hilda answers, her face bearing an ever-so-faint smile that disappears after a split second. "Either way, I think Ingrid and Olivia have things under control here, so I'll help Edda clean up inside."

"Sure thing." He nods. "And, just a reminder, I'll be taking off soon-ish – got to pack early for the trip to Garoar."

"Oh, right... That's tomorrow already?" Hilda asks, her brow furrowing with worry.

"Yup; if I don't go now, we'll run out of foodstuffs before I can come back," Gustaff answers back with a wise smirk. "But I'll have Ingrid and Olivia along and we hired good escorts and guide, so relax. I'll be sending for some temp workers to help you and Edda for that time."

"Alright, but... just take care out there, OK?" Hilda doesn't look very convinced but nods in deference before heading into the kitchen.

Hilda knows Gustaff's trying to put her at ease but she knows better; despite the fact that he's made that trip several times, every new one is cause for worry. While escorts are nice, survival depends solely on the guide as he's the one who supposedly knows the path to avoid the Valnr and their undead. Take the wrong turn and, barring some miraculous intervention by the Scions, everyone is as good as dead – escorts or not. Still, that is how life goes in the Northern Reaches.

Beyond the spike in movement for lunch, the afternoon hours are almost as slow as the morning. A few patrons come in here and there but, overall, the waitresses just sit around. Ingrid and Olivia stay up front, talking to each other while waiting for anyone to enter. Inbetween the twins' banter, the only noise that can be heard around the bar is Hilda's footsteps and the clink-clank of the tray of plates and silverware she brings to each table. Following that, she busies herself helping Edda prepare the dishes for the upcoming evening rush.

And, as surely as the sun rises, it begins precisely at six in the afternoon. The miners have just finished their shift and in come dozens of famished, thirsty workers to take up seat across the various tables of the bar. This is always the busiest time for all waitresses, having to manage all those patrons, write down all their orders for Edda – which isn't easy, as the shouting gets deafening – and make sure they're all served quickly. The bar's survival depends on treating these people well.

That aside, Hilda does find some satisfaction in all of it, serving these men and women who could've left but haven't done so yet. She figures this is also why Gustaff, despite the dwindling numbers, still keeps the place running.

Frederik and Joan aren't present, however, which means he's still continuing with his quest for sales, even past work hours. I guess, if anything, I should give props to his dedication... or his stubbornness, Hilda thinks.

"Hey, Hildy!" yells out a strong man with long, dark brown hair. "Hook us up with another round, would ya?"

"Alright, just a sec." she raises her hand in confirmation and heads behind the bar to fill up another four steins.

Bearing them all on a wooden tray, Hilda swerves between the many chairs laid all over the bar floor and brings it over to the man and his three friends. The miners' habit of making a mess out of the place is one of the main problems any new waitresses find – dodging all the people, chairs, tables, tools and, sometimes, clothes without spilling anything takes a lot of practice. After ten years, however, Hilda was a master at this "dance".

"Here it is, Karl," she says, laying all four steins upon their table. "You guys need anything else?"

"No, unless ya wanna hook me up with 'Liv over there," Karl quips, taking sideway glances towards Olivia.

"I don't think her boyfriend would like that." Hilda shakes her head.

"And what about you, Hilda?" asks Amanda, a tough-looking woman with very short hair, sitting with Karl. "Feel like having some fun with us after you're off the clock?"

Hilda fires back almost immediately. "Thanks, but no thanks. After we close, I'll clean things up and head to bed."

"Come on, Hildy," protests Karl, bumping her with his elbow, "when was the last time you did anything outside of working? You're sixteen, girl!"

"Again, thanks, but I'm good. Excuse me, hm?"

Hilda steps off, heading to the bar and tinkering with the beverages in a transparent attempt to appear busy. Karl and his friends look on with worry, exchanging dejected glances between one another and shaking their heads. Despite Hilda's best efforts to distract herself, their concern-heavy words still ring as clearly as if they were beside her still. A waitress's ears have been honed to make sense of every voice in the crowded bar and after all these years, she couldn't turn them off.

"Oi... And you said all she needed was time?" Karl sighs to Amanda. "It's been four years and she's still like this."

Amanda gives out a resigned shrug. "Well, that's natural when you consider the crap she went through. No one would get over it easily."

Olivia, who was listening in with Ingrid, joins the conversation. "Gustaff is worried, too... everyone is. Any ideas?"

"You need more than 'ideas' to fix that... if anyone's the religious type, try praying for her some," Ingrid says somberly.

No, what you need to do is leave me alone... Hilda grunts inwardly, stomping off into the kitchen.

She hasn't the time to sit still and be sour, though. The hours trudge along, with the nonstop work keeping Hilda and her colleagues in its unbreakable grip. Karl and Amanda try a few more times to convince her to unwind, to no avail – Hilda just feigns being busy with whatever springs to mind as an excuse to brush them away.

Not that she's lying, of course, with only three waitresses to deal with so many costumers. As the miners sing, dance, laugh and eat, Hilda just keeps on going back and forth from the kitchen, replacing their food and drinks when needed and never spending too long talking to people.

Soon, the movement starts dwindling down as people begin heading home. Closing time is almost upon them, with Karl and Amanda being among the last to leave – they'll be partying for a few more hours, elsewhere. Thus begins the slow process of cleaning the bar up. Olivia and Ingrid can't stay, also having prepare to accompany Gustaff in tomorrow's voyage, so it's up to Hilda to clean the place up. And it's heavy work, sweeping the bar floor whole, gathering many pieces of food and random bits of trash laid about. Miners aren't exactly known for their cleanliness and it's pretty much common for them to lose a plate or two every evening or so.

"Hey, Hilda," speaks Edda, stepping outside the kitchen sans her red apron. "I've already stored the food away and took out the trash. I'd really like to help you here but..."

Hilda shakes her head, raising her free hand in dismissal. "Ah, don't worry about it. Go be with your family - you've worked a lot already."

"You work just as much – if not more – and, yet, here you are. It doesn't feel fair, leaving you here." Edda sits upon one of the bar's stools, eyes fixated upon her.

"But you have other places to be and people to be with – I don't. This is what I do and, really, I'm fine with handling it."

A sad frown spreads across Edda's face. "You don't really think that, do you? Someone as young as you shouldn't. Listen, we all know how terrible it—"

"Edda," Hilda cuts across in a warning tone, "I love you and all but, please, don't. Go home to your family, and let me handle this."

"Alright, Hilda, alright..." Edda lets out a deep sigh before heading towards the bar's door. "I'll see you tomorrow."

Edda waves her good night with a smile and heads home, leaving Hilda to go about her business. She knows these people all have her best interest in mind but, honestly, she'd prefer if they just let this all go. This is her life to lead, not theirs. And, if she's no problem with the way things are, why can't that be enough?

Thus, Hilda continues working the night away. Once the floors are swept and cleaned, she makes a quick stop to eat her dinner over by the counter – Edda always leaves her a small serving of whatever she thinks was her best dish of the day. This time, it's a beef stew with potatoes and carrots and, indeed, it tastes heavenly. The ingredients around here may not be fancy but Edda works some magic to make them work.

With that done, next in line is to wash all the dishes and steins, drying them up and making sure everything is ready to be placed tomorrow morning. Finally, Hilda puts out the candles and sets out to bed. And that is that, really – her friends' meddling aside, just a day like any other.

Or, rather it was supposed to be. During her sleep, she finds herself waking up, still in her nightclothes, amid a snowy white plain. Not a particularly strange sight, all things considered, but something still feels off about world before her. For one, there are none of the brushes found all across the tundra of the Northern Reaches and the things are everywhere. Worse, there’s no wind and, as anyone who’s traveled in the north will tell, open fields like this are windy as no one’s business. The entire place feels like a painting, more than anything else.

If it is a painting, though, the artist isn’t too sure about it. Hilda’s heart skips a beat as she watches the clear blue sky simply pop out of existence, replaced with an empty white void.

“The hell…?” she asks aloud, her voice echoing far.

In the empty canvas above, a small blot appears out of nowhere. Before Hilda’s perplexed gaze, the blot starts growing, spinning and bending upon itself; like watching tea leaves spinning in a cup.

One by one, large figures begin taking form before fading away into another. Hilda sees a group of faceless people standing together, some golden symbol that she can't make out, a brownish-red mirror-like thing, a pair of rings, fishes, trees and something glowing violet.

The figures change over and over in endless procession, speeding up with every switch. Suddenly, Hilda feels a piercing pain in the middle of her forehead – as though a nail was just jammed into it. With a sharp yelp, she falls to her knees, clutching her head in a vain attempt to stymie the pain. A very faint voice starts making its way to Hilda’s ears, despite the fact that nobody’s around; her head feels like it’s about to burst and, yet, the whispers reach her with absolute clarity, speaking in a language she’s never heard before.

Hilda hasn’t the time to make sense of what it’s trying to say as, the second the whisper ends, the entire landscape erupts in a blinding white flash. When her eyes open, she’s back in her bed, covered in cold sweat.

What was all that? Hilda thinks, running her hands across her brow. The pain is gone and, as far as she can tell, she’s not hurt; still, this was hardly like any of her usual dreams.

She angles her head and takes a look out the window; it’s still pitch black outside, past midnight by the look of the moon. Hilda grips the bridge of her nose, groaning in quiet annoyance over having some crazy dream come visit at the worst possible moment. There are only a few hours to go before she and Edda have to run the bar themselves.

Dropping back onto the hard mattress like a bag of potatoes, Hilda lets out a long sigh and shuts her eyes. Sleep does not come easy, though. She feels so very tired, every part of her body feeling several kilos heavier, but she can’t seem to relax.

Hilda tosses and turns on her bed, trying to forget about the images she's seen. They stick to her mind like glue, especially that whispering. After what feels like forever, fatigue manages to overpower Hilda’s body and force her asleep. Waking up in the morning is going to be hell, though...